The Plantagenet Prelude

Chapter VI THE KING’S WILL

As soon as the Christmas festivities were over Eleanor began to consider her lying-in. Westminster Palace did not seem a suitable spot and she decided to move to the palace of Bermondsey.

This was situated in a village close to London where, a short while before, a priory had been built. It was a pleasant place and she settled into the Saxon palace with pleasure. From the long narrow glassless windows she could see the green fields surrounding the palace and was struck by their freshness; the gardens were beautiful too and she was glad that she had come here for the birth of her second child.

Henry would not be with her during those weeks when she awaited the birth. He was very much aware of the need to consolidate his position. Although he was only twenty-one he had wisdom far beyond his years; he was a born ruler and a good judge of human nature. The cheers of the people at the coronation still rang in his ears but he was well aware how fickle the acclaim of the people could be. He would never forget that he must never relinquish his hold on the crown.

The first thing he set about doing was to choose his chief ministers. The Earl of Leicester was an obvious choice; he had already had an indication of his friendship and he had assessed the man’s character. He knew that if he was a good friend to Leicester, the Earl would be a loyal subject to him. Therefore he was his first choice. Another he chose was Richard de Luci, a man who had had some standing under Stephen. Henry did not care that he had been a supporter of Stephen. He took to the man at once and read honesty in his face, and Henry trusted his own judgement.

These two were to be his chief advisers and he told them that he intended to go into action immediately. He was going to show the people of England that he intended to restore law and order throughout the land and this meant that he must silence any who would not accept him as their King and, popular as he had been in London and Winchester, he knew he could not hope for every man in the country to acclaim him. There would for instance be all those barons who had profited by the laxity of the law and had built up riches by exploiting those weaker than themselves. He was going to make immediate war on such people and destroy their castles, and for this reason he would make a tour of the country that all might be made aware of the new King’s intentions.

This suggestion was acclaimed by his ministers and all right-thinking men and women, and great optimism swept over the country.

In Bermondsey, Eleanor awaited the birth of the child while Henry began his pilgrimage. He travelled in great state as became a king and with him rode not only his army but his domestic staff with all their accoutrements. His bed with clean straw for his bedding was carried in the cavalcade, with objects of furniture, his clothes and food. Cooks, stewards, scullions, and other members of his household staff marched with his soldiers.

People turned out in their thousands to watch the procession pass and so during those early days of his reign he began to rid the country of the brigand barons, burning down many of their fortresses much to the delight of those who had for long lived in fear of them.

There were of course many who resented this but they had little chance against the King. As the days passed he grew in strength and it was clear to many that the weak rule of Stephen was over.

Meanwhile in the village of Bermondsey Eleonor gave birth to her child.

This was a cause for great rejoicing for not only was it a boy but this time a lusty one. This was a great comfort for little William’s health had not improved and it seemed hardly likely that he would reach his manhood.

‘There is only one name for this boy,’ declared Eleanor. ‘He must be called Henry after his father.’

As soon as Eleanor had risen from child-bed she joined Henry and they went about the country together in order to show themselves to their people.

‘Let us be together while we can,’ said Henry, ‘for I fear trouble either in Normandy, Aquitaine, Maine or Anjou … and then I shall have to leave you to govern here in my absence.’

Eleanor replied that she hoped he would stay with her, but if by ill-chance he was forced to go away she would use all her skill to govern in his place and according to his wishes.

‘It was a good day when we were wed,’ he told her. ‘Two sons you have already given me and it is not so long since we were married.’

‘I am anxious about William,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t seem to have the will to live,’

‘He’ll grow out of it.’

‘You could never have been like that.’

‘Oh, I would bawl for all I wanted and when my grandfather used to dandle me on his knee, he told me that his father grasped a handful of rushes when he was a few days old and that this was a symbol of what his life would be. He’d take land wherever he found it. And it seems I took after him. You can’t expect everyone to be like us.’

‘I’d expect it of your son,’ replied Eleanor. ‘Henry is more like you. He has more life in him already than our poor little William.’

‘William’ll change. He’ll be a scholar most likely. Forget not he has two learned parents.’

Although he was smiling he was thinking of his illegitimate son by Hikenai and of his promise to bring him to court.

Not yet, he comforted himself. The boy would be too young for a few years.

During one of his visits to Bermondsey his brother Geoffrey came to the palace and demanded an audience.

Geoffrey’s looks were sullen.

‘How like you England?’ asked Henry.

‘How could I like a land in which I am a pauper depending on my brother’s whims?’ demanded Geoffrey.

‘What an impatient fellow you are!’ retorted Henry. ‘I have not had the crown long enough to dispose of land and castles.’

‘I believe some have been favoured by you.’

‘Those whose support it was necessary to have, yes. I expect yours, brother, without payment.’

‘Perhaps you expect too much,’ grumbled Geoffrey.

‘Be patient, brother. Great good will come to you if you will but be patient.’

‘Great good should have come to me by now. Did not my father leave me Anjou and Maine in his will, to be mine when you gained the crown of England?’

‘All in good time,’ parried Henry.

And he thought: How long would this boy hold Anjou and Maine? To give them to him would be to throw them to our enemies.

‘In whose good time?’ demanded Geoffrey. ‘Mine or yours?’

‘In that of the King’s,’ answered Henry; and Geoffrey went away grumbling.

Very soon afterwards Henry heard that his brother had left England and had returned to Anjou.

It was as he had expected. Geoffrey had gone back to raise men to his standard. He was declaring that he had right on his side. His father had left him Anjou and Maine which were to come to him when his brother secured the crown of England and now Henry refused to hand them over. There was only one thing to do and that was fight for them.

As Henry was occupied in England there were men ready to flock to Geoffrey’s banner.

Matilda, the Empress, had come to England. She wanted to see her son in the crown which she had always believed should have been hers. He was delighted to see her for her single-minded devotion to him had endeared her to him, and he believed she had never really cared for anyone but himself, and that he could rely on her advice.

He told her of Geoffrey’s fury and pointed out that he could not give him the land his father had promised him. She saw the point at once. Only her eldest son was worthy to rule. All her hopes were in him. His brothers, she, believed, should have been contented to serve him.

The more possessions in the hands of the King of England, the more powerful he would be and that was for the good of the House of Plantagenet.

‘You will never get my brothers to see that,’ sighed Henry ruefully. ‘There is also William. How shall I satisfy him? He will soon be wanting territory to rule over. I have been talking over with Eleanor a plan for conquering Ireland and setting up William as its king.’

Matilda was thoughtful. ‘That’s well enough for later on. First you must make sure of your position here, and what of Anjou and Maine? What do you think would happen if you took a war into Ireland? Geoffrey would immediately revolt and take your possessions over there. Perhaps even Normandy. Nay! You have secured the crown of England. Now make sure that you lose nothing that you have before you seek fresh conquests. You should go. and see what mischief Geoffrey is making.’

He talked this proposition over with Eleanor and she was sure that Matilda was right.

‘I shall miss you bitterly,’ she said. ‘But you must go and save Anjou and Maine.’ She grew pale. ‘Perhaps even Aquitaine is in danger. Nay, you must go. You can leave me here with Leicester and Richard de Luci. You know you can trust us.’

‘Aye, I know,’ answered Henry; and he thought: They are right. This is what happened to my grandfather and my greatgrandfather. Their lives were spent between England and Normandy because being in possession of one there was always the need to keep the other.

Eleanor was pregnant once more. He must leave her. She would be capable of ruling with the help of men whom he could trust.

And so he set sail for his troubled possessions across the sea.

There was much to occupy her.

She had set about making a court in England to compare with those which had delighted her in Aquitaine and Paris. Already troubadours from Provence were coming to her court. They were singing their songs of love and often she was the heroine of the romantic stories they portrayed.

Whenever she rode out her clothes were admired by the people who gathered to stare at her and raise a loyal shout. She set new fashions. She was often seen with her hair loosely plaited covered by fine gauze; her gowns with their long hanging sleeves were the delight and wonder of the citizens of London, a city of which she was becoming very fond.

She delighted in the Tower of London at the east end of the city; she liked to pass under the gateway of Ludgate and enter the old cathedral; she loved the river down which she sailed to Westminster past the Strand with the beautiful gardens running down to the river’s edge. It was the power of the city that she loved for it was the richest city in England, and she liked to remind herself that these people were her subjects and that she with Henry ruled over this land.

There were times though when she sighed for the warmer breezes of Aquitaine and she longed to be there again, Henry and her troubadours beside her; but she realised that the destiny which had made him a king decreed that they would often have to be parted from each other, as now when it was her duty to watch their interests in England while he made sure that his turbulent brother did not succeed in his ambitious schemes.

Since she was pregnant she did not miss him so sorely. Her children occupied her time. It seemed that after all she was meant to be a mother for she changed when she became pregnant and when her babies were young. She often thought of Marie and Alix and wondered if they missed her. She thought too of Louis with his new wife and whether he had forgotten her.

But there was too much near at hand and in the present for her to concern herself with far-off days.

There was the new baby, the mischief which little Henry was constantly brewing and the growing weakness of little William.

That was her main concern. His nurses shook their heads over him. He grew more pale and listless every day; and very soon before the new baby was born she knew for sure that when she gained one child she would lose another.

And so it happened.

She was with him when he died. She held his little hand in hers and he gazed at her with wondering eyes as though to ask her why she had borne him since his stay on earth was to be so brief. He was but three years old.

She took him into her arms and held his frail body close to hers.

‘Rest my little one,’ she said. ‘It may be that you have been spared much sorrow.’

And so died little William, the firstborn, the son of whom they had had such bright hopes.

The newly born child was a daughter. Eleanor thought it would please the Empress if this child was named after her so they called her Matilda.

It had not taken Henry long to bring Geoffrey to his knees. Of course Henry had no intention of giving him Anjou. Their father had promised it, it was true, but Henry knew that his father had not been noted for his wisdom. Henry was not going to give Anjou into his brother’s feckless hands. But his father had left that fair land to Geoffrey. There were the conditions plain enough. To be Geoffrey’s when Henry became King of England. So Henry compromised by promising to pay Geoffrey an income of several thousand pounds a year for possession of Anjou.

This seemed a reasonable arrangement to both brothers. To Geoffrey, because he knew he would never be able to hold it against his brother, and to Henry, because he knew Anjou would never be safe while he was not at hand to protect it. Moreover promises could always be broken, and if Geoffrey were such a fool as to believe he could be paid so much money yearly he deserved to lose it.

So the arrangement was made and then Geoffrey had an unexpected offer from Brittany. That province was in turmoil. It was the prey of robbers and needed a strong ruler. As Geoffrey was the brother of the man to whom many were beginning to show respect and who could come to his help if need be, he seemed a good candidate to take over Brittany. It was a heaven-sent opportunity in Henry’s eyes.

Geoffrey would now have a land to rule. He would be an important man. He was to get his pension for handing over Anjou - or rather for refraining from attempting to take it.

All was well for a while.

Henry decided that England could safely be left in the hands of Leicester and Richard de Luci and of his ministers, and that Eleanor who had suffered the loss of young William and had recently undergone the trials of childbirth, should spend a little time in her beloved Aquitaine. The winter would be more comfortably passed there.

Eleanor was delighted, not only to rejoin her husband but to be once more in her native land.

What a joy it was to be there! She felt young again. These were like the days when she and her sister Petronelle had sat in the gardens and played their lutes and sang their songs of the pleasures of love.

Petronelle was now at the court of France of course. She often wondered about her marriage with Raoul de Vermandois and thought of how she had felt a little jealousy because Ralph’s impassioned glances had once been directed towards her. They had two daughters now - Eleonore and Isabelle. That seemed long ago and she wondered how she could have considered the fastidious Raoul de Vermandois attractive.

Now she compared all men with Henry and they suffered in the comparison. That seemed strange for even she had to admit that he was not a handsome man - nor was he tall as Raymond of Antioch had been. Raymond had been a man whom everyone would notice not only for his handsome looks but for his outstanding stature. Henry was a man who commanded immediate attention because of his strength. He was not fastidious as the men she had previously admired had been. He was not gallant; he was too impatient to waste words. There was too much of interest in his life to give him time to rest. He slept little; he was up with the dawn; he rarely sat down; he could not endure inactivity. When his hair, which was thick and curly, was clipped square on his forehead, he resembled a lion, for his nostrils flared and his eyes could be hot with rage. He was clearly made to fit a saddle and when he sat a horse he and the animal were as one. His clothes were never fancy except for State occasions when he realised the need to appear kingly and impress the multitude. His hands were strong and their skin rough, for he scorned gloves and would ride out in biting winds without them. They impeded his progress he said, and were for ladies. He was a great huntsman, a trait he had inherited from his ancestors. It was his most popular form of relaxation. Notwithstanding all his interests he was a scholar. He never forgot the training which his uncle - his mother’s bastard brother - had determined he should have. Henry was a man who needed little sleep, who wished his mind to be active every moment of his waking hours as his body was.

It was small wonder, Eleanor often thought, that she had remained enamoured of him.

He was always in her thoughts. She wondered what would have happened if she could have married him when she married Louis. That made her laugh. Henry had been but a baby at that time. She had never noticed the difference in their ages. Had he, she wondered?

Their passion was as strong as ever, and after their separations which happened frequently, they were united as they had been in the first days of their marriage.

She was, of course, learning to know him. His temper was quick and violent and when it arose everyone around him was terrified. His nostrils would flare and his eyes flash; he would kick inanimate objects and sometimes lie on the floor and pummel it with his fists.

These rages were terrible and when they occurred it was as though devils possessed him.

Eleanor, capable of showing anger herself, was horrified to see the extent to which Henry’s rages carried him. During the first years of their marriage she had seen little of this side of his nature because he had been so content with his marriage and his gaining of the English crown. But when any crossed him, these fits of anger would take possession of him, and once he had decided that any man or woman was his enemy he could never see them as anything else.

Nevertheless she understood him and she loved him and he was sufficient for her. She would have liked him to have joined her on those occasions when her troubadours were gathered about her. She would have liked Henry to have sung a song of love which he had written to her.

Henry had little time for such pastimes. So she sighed and decided that she would hold her little court without him.

There were many who were ready to sing their songs to her. She felt young again. Ardent eyes glowed into hers while delicate fingers - different from Henry’s blunt weather-battered ones - plucked at lute strings.

What have I done since my marriage to Henry? she asked herself as she listened. I have borne children - three in three years. I have either been pregnant or giving birth. She laughed. The duty of a queen of course but hardly fitting for the heroine of a love song.

Henry had seemed content. The death of little William had shocked him, not so much for the loss of the child but because he was his eldest son. They had young Henry - that was good - and Matilda, but Henry wanted more sons. He was constantly speaking of the plight of his grandfather Henry I who had had one legitimate son - though many illegitimate ones - and when that son had been drowned there was only his daughter to follow him. What had happened? Civil war.

‘We must get sons,’ said Henry. ‘We have my little namesake but look what happened to William. We need more sons and we must get them while you are of an age to bear them.’

He was in his early twenties - plenty of time for him. But her? The time when she would cease to be able to bear children was not so far away.

This was the first reference to the difference in their ages. It ruffled her like the faintest stirring of a rising wind.

And so she must go on bearing children. She could be a fond mother but she was a woman of too strong a personality to subdue it to that of others - husband or children.

Encroaching age, childbearing, those were matters for the future. Here she was in her beloved chateau surrounded by troubadours whose delight it was to sing songs to the lady of their dreams, and who could inspire them to such ecstasy as their Queen?

There was one among all those who sang to her who attracted her attention more than any other. This was a handsome young man named Bernard. He called himself Bernard de Ventadour but it was whispered that he had no right to the name. It was true that he had been born in the Chateau de Ventadour, but his enemies said that he was the son of one of the kitchen women and a serf. The Comte and Comtesse de Ventadour, as was the custom with so many, allowed the child to be brought up on their estate and so he would have had access to the castle.

That he was possessed of especial gifts was soon apparent, and as the Count and Countess loved song and poetry he was allowed to join their company of singers.

It soon became clear that he was a poet of no small ability and as both the Count and Countess encouraged him, his fame spread and many came to the castle to hear his verses.

The subject of these was, naturally, love, and every poet of the day selected the most beautiful and desirable lady of his circle to whom to address his words. The Countess of Ventadour was undoubtedly a beautiful woman and to whom should a member of her household address his poems but to the lady of the castle?

The songs of Bernard grew more and more daring and as he sang them he would sit at the feet of the Countess and give her the benefit of his eloquent love-hungry eyes. This was the custom; each troubadour had his lady; but most of the troubadours were of noble families and that the son of an oven girl and a serf should raise his eyes to a countess and sing of his longings was more daring than could be countenanced.

In any case the Count thought so. He told Bernard that there was no longer a place for him at the Chateau de Ventadour.

Bernard could do nothing but prepare to leave. He was not unduly disturbed, for he had heard that Queen Eleanor was in residence in her native land and his reputation as one of the finest poets in the land had travelled far.

He presented himself to Eleanor who received him immediately for she had long admired his poems and even set some of them to her own music.

‘You are welcome,’ she told him. ‘I look forward to hearing you sing for us.’

To express respectful admiration was second nature to Bernard. And now that the beauty of the Countess was removed it was replaced by a brighter luminary. Eleanor could not help but be pleased by the frank admiration, bordering on adoration, which she read in his eyes. It was comforting following on Henry’s implication that they must get sons while she still had time to bear them.

Bernard, now known as Bernard de Ventadour - as fine a name as any of Eleanor’s courtiers - became the favoured poet of the Queen’s entourage. He was constantly at her feet. Poems and songs poured from him and their subject was always Eleanor, the Queen of Love.

She could not but be pleased. Bernard had such a beautiful voice. He was writing some of the best poetry in France and it was to her. Such words intoxicated her.

Henry came once upon her circle of troubadours and sat down among them. His quick eyes took in the sprawling figure of Bernard de Ventadour at her feet and he noticed the soft looks Eleanor cast in the poet’s direction.

His eyes narrowed. He did not think for one moment that this emotion which was obviously between them could possibly be the result of physical love. Eleanor would have too much sense. Any child she bore could be a king or queen of England and she was enough a queen to know that child could have only one father and he the King. Even so, there was no doubt that she liked this pretty fellow with his delicate beringed hands. He wondered whether Eleanor had given him the rings he was wearing.

He watched and listened and he remembered that very soon he would have to bring his bastards to court. For Avice’s children that would be easy, for they had been born before he had known Eleanor. But young Geoffrey, Hikenai’s son, would need a little explaining because he had been born after their marriage. For all Eleanor’s lively past she had been a faithful wife, which was surprising. But she had been fully occupied with childbearing. No sooner was one child born than another was on the way and there had been little time for any extra-marital adventures as far as she was concerned. He could see by her fondness for these poets who sang of a love which never seemed to reach any physical fulfilment that she was living in some romantic dream and that meant that it would be difficult for her to accept the needs of a man such as himself. He was no romantic. He was a realist. Women were important in his life and he had no intention that it should be otherwise. It was something she had to come to terms with, and she would on the day he brought young Geoffrey to court and had him brought up in that special manner reserved for a king’s bastards. His grandfather Henry I had had enough of them. William the Conqueror had not it seemed. He had never heard of a single one of his. But no one could hope to be like the Conqueror who had only lived to conquer and rule. These were good enough matters but not enough to fill a man’s life. And Eleanor would have to be made to understand.

He saw in this Ventadour affair a means of making his task easier when the moment came to confront her with young Geoffrey.

He rose suddenly in the middle of one of Bernard’s songs and left the company. Eleanor looked after him with amazement but she remained seated until the song was finished.

Then she said: ‘It seems that the King was not pleased with your little piece, Bernard.’

‘And my lady?’

‘I thought it excellent. If the lady you sing of really is possessed of so much beauty and virtue she must be a goddess.’

‘She is,’ replied Bernard fervently.

‘And your recital of her virtues clearly bored the King.’

‘I care not for the King’s boredom if I give the Queen pleasure.’

‘Be careful, Bernard. The King is a violent man.’

He bowed his head. How graceful he was! How gallant! And how she loved his poetry!

When she was alone with Henry he decided to begin the attack.

‘That oven girl’s bastard will have to leave the court,’ he said.

‘Bernard! Why he is reckoned as one of the greatest poets in the country.’

‘A slut’s bastard to give himself airs!’

‘His talent makes him equal to an earl.’

‘Not in my eyes,’ said the King. ‘And I like not the insolent manner in which he regards you.’

‘Insolent! He is never that. He respects none as he does his Queen.’

‘By God,’ cried Henry, ‘it seems the fellow aspires to be your lover.’

‘Only in his dreams.’

‘Dreams! The upstart dog! Tell him that I shall send him back to the ovens where he belongs.’

‘No great poet belongs working at an oven. You have some learning, Henry. You have a respect for talent … one might say genius.’

‘And I say insolence,’ shouted the King. ‘I’ll have his eyes put out.’

‘The whole of Aquitaine would rise against you. A great poet … one of our greatest … and simply because he writes a poem …’

‘To the Queen,’ cried Henry, ‘to whom he suggests … what does he suggest? By my mother’s blood; if words were deeds he would be in your bed. I swear it.’

‘But words are not deeds and I trust I know my duty.’

The King seized her by her shoulders and threw her on to the bed.

‘Know this,’ he said, ‘if ever I heard that you had deceived me I would kill your lover. Do you know that?’

‘And rightly so. I would not blame you.’

‘So you would not have blamed Louis if he had killed your lovers.’

‘Talk to me not of Louis.’

‘Indeed, I am no Louis.’

‘Would I have loved you, borne your children if you had been?’

‘You bore Louis children.’

‘I was younger then. I was trapped and I had not then found the way out of the trap.’

‘I like not this dalliance with your poet.’

‘Why do you fear I should prefer him to you?’

The king picked up the stool which stood in the room and threw it against the wall.

Through the castle there was hushed silence. The King was in one of his tempers. He was showing his anger and jealousy and suspicion against Bernard de Ventadour and the young poet was warned that he should slip quietly away until the storm had blown over.

Henry raged about the apartment accusing her of infidelity but there was something lacking in this bout of rage.

Finally he flung himself on to the bed where Eleanor had lain watching him.

He seized her with sudden passion and declared once more that he would run his sword through any man who dared to make love to her.

Eleanor accepted his embraces; Ventadour retired from the court although he was to return later; and very soon after that incident Eleanor discovered that she was once more pregnant.

Since Henry’s appearance in France the situation there had become more peaceful and he felt it was time that he returned to England.

He had no intention of leaving Eleanor behind in France. He decided that she and the children should travel back to England ahead of him. The new child should be born there.

She missed Aquitaine and her troubadours for although there were many poets and singers at her court they did not seem the same as those of Provence. Often she thought of Bernard de Ventadour who had been driven from the Castle of Ventadour because of his verses to the Countess and now had displeased the King because of his devotion to Eleanor.

Bernard was a man who must have a lady to whom he could address his poems. No doubt by this time he had found another castle and another lady.

She shrugged aside romantic thoughts and gave herself up to the matter of preparing for another birth. My destiny, she thought! Is there to be no end of it? If I get another son I shall call a halt to this pattern.

She dreamed of a son. She wanted a son this time. She was fond of her children but young Henry was too overbearing, and already looked like his father. He bullied Matilda who did not show the spirit of the grandmother for whom she had been named.

This son would be different, she promised herself. Tall and handsome as Raymond of Antioch, as great a ruler as his father, in truth a king. But how could he be, when he had an elder brother?

It pleased her to dream of this son who had been conceived in the warmth of Aquitaine. Aquitaine should be his. She patted her body and whispered: ‘I shall bequeath it to you, little son.’

The child moved within her and she laughed delightedly. He must have understood her. She was convinced this one was going to be no ordinary child.

She had travelled to Oxford for she had decided that in this neighbourhood the child should be born. Just outside the walls of the city, close to the northern gate was Beaumont Palace with its serene views of green meadows beyond which rose the turrets of Oxford Castle from which years ago Henry’s mother had escaped on the ice. Here her child should be born.

She had no intention of nursing the child herself and asked her women to find a good woman, with child herself, who could act as wet-nurse to the royal infant.

The woman, clearly in a very advanced stage of pregnancy, was brought to the palace and there she was installed in the royal nursery.

The Queen lay languidly on her bed and bade the woman sit down that she might study her. She was clean, a country woman clearly. Her skin was fresh-looking and she was buxom and quite comely.

‘It cannot be long before you are brought to bed,’ said Eleanor.

‘Nay, my lady. I expect it hourly.’

‘You have no fear of childbirth?’

‘Why no, my lady. ‘Tis all natural like.’

She was not new to breeding and it was for this reason that she had been chosen, for she was known to have good milk and enough for two babies.

The royal child would be fed first and if there was enough over then she might feed her own baby. She understood this and was delighted to do the service asked of her. A stay in the royal palace, the honour of suckling a royal child. Everyone knew a woman was well rewarded for that.

‘What is your name ?’ asked Eleanor.

‘It is Hodierna, my lady.’

‘Well then, you must take good care of yourself for by so doing you will have good milk and only the best will be good enough for my child.’

‘I know it well, my lady,’ said Hodierna.

She was brought to bed the very next day and gave birth to a boy. Eleanor herself visited her and admired the child.

He was to be called Alexander.

A few days later a son was born to Eleanor.

He was called Richard and from the first he was more handsome than his brother. His limbs were long and straight and Eleanor loved him dearly.

Hodierna was the best possible foster-mother and she was right when she said she had enough milk for two boys.

As the months passed they grew into two of the finest boys at court and in time they were very much aware of each other like brothers.

When Henry returned he came to Oxford to see his new son. He admired young Richard, none could help doing that. But it was clear that he had something on his mind.

He had. He had seen Hikenai again and she had reminded him of his promise to do something for their son. He knew he could not delay the matter much longer.

Little Geoffrey would have to be brought to the nursery and while the good foster-mother was there with her little son Alexander, it seemed a good moment to introduce him.

He said to Eleanor when they were in their bedchamber, ‘There will be an addition to the nursery.’

She did not understand him at first. ‘An addition? We have two sons and a daughter. Is that not enough? Do you want me to spend all my time in the awkward state of pregnancy?’

‘Nay, nay,’ he said. ‘I was not thinking of another for us, though doubtless there will be more. It is a boy in whom I have an interest.’

‘You have an interest!’ Eleanor had sat up. She threw back her long hair and there was bright colour in her cheeks.

‘Aye,’ he answered firmly, ‘a very special interest.’

‘Why so?’ she demanded.

‘I do not intend to be interrogated.’

‘Perhaps not. But I intend to interrogate.’

‘You forget, Madam, that you speak to the King.’

She had leaped from the bed. She stood facing him, her arms folded across her breasts.

‘Are you telling me that you want to bring one of your bastards into my nursery?’

‘I am telling you, Madam, that I shall bring one of my bastards into my nursery.’

‘I’ll not have it.’

‘The boy will be arriving in a few days.’

‘He shall not stay.’

‘He will stay with his half-brothers. That good woman Hodierna will be told that he is to have the same treatment as the others.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Some three years.’

‘A little younger than William would have been. So …’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘You … you lecher!’

He laughed at her. ‘A fine one to talk. A woman who lay with her own uncle.’

She lifted her hand to strike him, but he caught it and flung her from him.

‘Know this,’ he said. ‘I am the master here. You are a subject no less than any other.’

‘I … your subject! What were you but a mere Duke of Normandy! I brought you Aquitaine.’

‘That is in the past. I am the King of England now.’

‘And I am the Queen.’

‘Through my good grace. Remember it. I could have you imprisoned this very night had I wished it.’

‘How … dare you!’

‘You will find that the King of England dares much.’

‘So you were not faithful to me … not even at that time … in those early days!’

‘I was away a long time. How did you expect me to keep from women? She was a woman of light morals. There was nothing more than that.’

‘And I must have the bastard of a woman of light morals brought up with my children!’

‘He is of the King’s blood.’

‘Do you think I will have him in my nursery?’

‘Yes, Madam, I do. And I swear to you that should you try to harm him in any way I will take my revenge on you and such will it be that you will wish you had never lived to see the day.’

‘Do you think I am of a kind to take revenge on babies?’

‘Nay I do not. I think you are sensible enough to see reason.’

‘Henry, I am a ruler in my own right. I will not be treated in this way.’

‘You will be treated in what manner I think fit.’

‘I have done much for you …’

‘And I for you. Did I not marry you … a divorced woman twelve years older than myself!’

‘I shall hate you for this.’

‘Do so. We will beget more sons in hate. Come, we will begin now.’

She tore herself away from him but he would not release her. He was exultant. The difficult task which he had dreaded was over. She knew there was a child and that that child was coming to her nursery and she accepted this fact just as she accepted him now. He was still irresistible to her.

She would grow out of her romantic fantasies. She would forget the songs that were sung by her troubadours. Life was not like that.

Men such as he was when away from their wives took other women. He had thought she would have been experienced enough to know that. There would be separations in the years to come and other women … legions of them. She must learn to accept it and if there was a bastard or two whom he wanted brought up at court then that bastard should be brought up at court.

She did accept it. She was too much of a realist to stand against that which was inevitable. But her feeling for him changed from that time. She would no longer consider what was good for him; she would think of her own will and pleasure.

The bastard Geoffrey came to the nursery. He was an engaging little fellow and, the King was particularly interested in him and determined that he should not be made to feel inferior to his half-brothers.

As for the Queen she ignored the boy, and for her son Richard there grew up within her a tenderness of which she had not thought herself capable.

The relationship between them having changed they began to see in each other faults which they had not noticed before. To Eleanor Henry seemed often crude in his manners; his style of dress was unimaginative; she disliked his rough hands. Although he could be overbearing where his will was concerned she often thought he lacked the bearing of a king. That was not true exactly. His manner was such as to command immediate obedience. What she objected to was his lack of grace, his simple clothes and the manner in which he rarely sat down to eat but took his food standing as though eating was a habit he had little time for. When she thought of the gracious banquets which had taken place at her father’s court and that of Louis too, she was impatient. His rages too had increased. He made no attempt to control himself in her presence. She had seen him lie on the floor and gnaw the rushes in his fury. There were times then when she thought he would go mad, for his eyes would be wild, his nostrils would flare and he would indeed resemble the lion to which people compared him. It was these violent rages which held so many in awe of him. Yet she had to admit he was greatly respected, and he bound men to him in a manner which was surprising for he thought little of lying or breaking promises. His one idea was to make England great and to hold every bit of land which had come into his possession. He wanted people to regard him as they had his great-grandfather, the mighty Conqueror. There was a difference though. Great William had been single-minded in his conquests. He had married his wife and in spite of long separations had been almost entirely faithful to her. William had been a cold man sexually; Henry was hot. Eleanor knew this and it was a sadness to her that her feelings had changed, for he was still important to her. She could not regret her marriage. She despised herself for having endowed it with an idealism which she should have known it could never possess. She was a romantic; Henry was a lusty earthy man. The quality they shared was a love of power and it had wounded her proud spirit that she should have to accept his infidelity. What hurt most was that while she had been faithfully dreaming of him he had been sporting with harlots, and one in particular he must have thought of with affection, since he brought her child to the royal nursery. How many bastards of his were scattered round the country? she wondered.

She could not hate the child in the nursery, but Henry, to subdue her, made much of the boy. He had made it clear that he was to be treated no differently from Henry or the baby Richard or young Matilda. It would be a different matter when they grew up. Young master Geoffrey would learn the difference then between the heirs of the King and his bastards. She knew that Henry made much of the boy chiefly to annoy her and refused to let him see how much it did.

Her baby Richard was a great comfort to her. He was going to be handsome. Already he showed signs of his spirit, screaming for what he wanted and charming everyone in the nursery at the same time. Henry ignored the child. Sometimes she thought Richard was aware of it, for whenever his father came near him he yelled in anger.

Henry, too, considered their changed relations. She was a virago, he decided, and all kings should have meek wives who obeyed unquestioningly. Stephen had been lucky with his Matilda, for although she had been a clever woman, quite a strategist it had turned out, and had done so much to further her husband’s cause, she had never criticised him and always wished to please him. Had he married my mother, thought Henry, he would have noticed the difference. Henry laughed remembering the fierce quarrels between his father and mother. Whenever they were together there had been conflict. He could remember hearing the shouts of abuse which they had flung at each other. What hatred there had been between those two! His mother had been ten years older than his father. And he was twelve years younger than Eleanor. Was it a pattern in their families - young husbands, older wives, and stormy marriages?

But he could not compare his marriage with that of his parents. Theirs had been one of pure hate and contempt from the start. How his father had ever got his mother with three sons was hard to imagine. But they had done their duty and here he was - thank God the eldest, for he had little respect from his brothers Geoffrey and William.

And his feelings for Eleanor? Well, he did not regret his marriage. She had brought him Aquitaine and she was a queen to be proud of. No woman ever looked quite as elegant as Eleanor. She knew what clothes she should wear and she knew how to wear them. Wherever she was she caught people’s eyes and that was what a queen should do. The people of England were wary of her as they would be of all foreigners but they liked to look at her and she was well worth looking at.

But she was a proud woman. A meek man would be overawed by her. He thought of poor Louis of France. All those years she had been married to him she had treated him badly and still he had been reluctant to let her go. He laughed to himself to picture her arriving at Antioch and setting eyes on her handsome uncle. And in a short time she was sharing his bed and that of an infidel it seemed! He had much to hold against her if ever she questioned his behaviour.

Life with Eleanor would henceforth be a battle. He was excited by the prospect, so he could not regret his marriage. Moreover she had brought him Aquitaine. How could he ever regret Aquitaine?

Eleanor was fitted to be a queen in every way providing she had a husband who knew how to subdue her. When she had learned that the King’s will was law he would be happy enough in his marriage. They would have more children. She had proved she could get sons and he would not be adverse to a daughter or two. They made such excellent counters in the game of politics. A marriage here and there could cement an alliance far better than any written contract.

But she had to realise that he was the King and that he would be obeyed. She was his Queen and a certain amount of respect was due to her, but what was given her came through his grace, and she must be grateful to him for it.

To expect that of Eleanor was asking a good deal and that was what made the battle between them exciting.

Child-bearing had had its effect on her. Although she did not feed her children herself, fearing to impair her beautiful high firm breasts, the bearing of so many children in so short a time had slightly changed her figure. She had borne him four children and then there were Louis’s two girls. A woman who had given birth to six children could scarcely be the sylph she had been when a young girl. She no longer attracted him physically as she had done. The intense desire he had experienced when he first knew her was replaced by a passion which had its roots in the desire to subdue her.

Yet deep within him there was hope for a different sort of relationship. The ideal woman would have been one who adored him, submitted to him, was faithful to him in every way, whose personal egoism was overlaid by her desire to serve him. There were such women. The late King Stephen had found one. To such a woman he would have been kind and tender. He would not have been faithful to her. Had Stephen been faithful to his Matilda? It was a well-known fact that he had not. Yet her feelings had never swerved and she had proved herself a clever woman in her desire to serve her husband. There were very few women in the world like Matilda of Boulogne, and Eleanor was certainly not one of them.

He was glad that Eleanor realised he had no intention of being faithful to her, that he was going to live like a king taking his pleasure where he would and that all his subjects - be they his Queen or his most humble serving-man - must realise that this was the King’s way and none should dare question it.

He could never rest anywhere for long. When he was in the South he must wonder what the people of the North were doing. He had made a habit of travelling about the country without warning which way he was going. This meant that everywhere they must be prepared for him to descend on them at any moment and woe betide any of them who were not carrying out his orders. This habit was applauded by the ordinary people, who had seen the immediate effect it had had on law and order. No robber baron now dared to carry out his cruel tricks. The King would hear of it and his word was law.

England rejoiced. It had a strong king again. Henry was determined to keep his country rejoicing.

With great glee he had discovered that Eleanor was pregnant again. She had deplored the fact.

‘What am I then?’ she demanded. ‘An animal whose sole purpose in life is to breed?’

‘It is the fate of women,’ retorted Henry with a smirk.

‘I tell you this. I shall have a long rest after this one.’

‘Three boys would be a fair tally,’ he conceded.

She hated to see him there - younger than she was, full of health and vigour, off on his travels again, looking for young and beautiful girls who would think it an honour to be seduced by the King and if a child resulted from their dalliance, well, who knew the King might allow it to be brought up in the royal nursery. Hadn’t he taken the harlot’s Geoffrey and done just that?

She hated him for being free and young.

It was like him to rise early in the morning and only then let it be known that he was ready to start on his peregrinations. What a bustle there was in the castle! Servants would hastily rise from their beds and the grooms, bleary-eyed, would hurry to the stables. The horses themselves, catching the mood, would grow frisky; the cooks and stewards and all the members of the domestic household who travelled with the King quickly gathered together the tools of their trades, for the King was on the move and he was impatient with delay.

Eleanor watched from her window. They feared him; yet there was not one of them who would wish to be left behind. His terrible rages made them tremble, but his rough words of friendship enraptured them.

She had to admit grudgingly that he was indeed a king. There he was bawling instructions while they ran frantically round him. There was his bed being taken out. Who would share that with him? she wondered angrily. Fresh straw in case it could not be procured on the way. His platters and his drinking cups. There would not be any great banquets, she thought ruefully. His pleasure lay in the bed rather than the table.

He looked up and saw her at the window. He bowed ironically. No regrets now as there used to be in the old days. Then she would have been down there. She would have begged him to return quickly, to think of her as she would of him. That was changed. She knew him better. He had betrayed himself as the lecher he was. He could not even be faithful in the days when they had been at the height of their passion.

Let him go to his whores and harlots. She was glad to be rid of him.

And he had dared dismiss Bernard de Ventadour. Why? Had he really been jealous as he had pretended to be? There was much that she did not understand about him. Perhaps that was why she could not stop thinking of him.

And now here she was - she, Eleanor of Aquitaine, the elegant lady of good taste and culture, the patron of arts, a woman who must await the pleasure of the King’s visits to her bed, which she was beginning to suspect were for the sole purpose of getting children. Was this the romance of which her poets had sung?

There was consolation in her children, and particularly Richard.

He was a wonderful boy and very soon there would be another. It was not a year since his birth and here she was heavy with a child again.

She took Richard in her arms and put his smooth young face against her own.

‘The King has gone, Richard,’ she said.

The child crowed with delight as though he understood.

She laughed aloud and hugged him tightly. In this fine boy she could forget her disillusion with her husband.

Chapter VII FAIR ROSAMUND

Henry made his way to Shropshire. On his accession he had ordered the demolition of any castle which had been erected as a stronghold from which the pillaging of the countryside took place. This had aroused the enmity of many of those who had owned these castles and Henry knew that if he did not continue to have the country patrolled either by himself or his trusted friends these castles would be erected again.

He had heard that this was what was happening in the area of Shropshire and the news had been sent to him by a certain Sir Walter Clifford who himself was having a disagreement with the son of one of the chieftains of Wales.

Henry therefore decided that he would make for Sir Walter’s castle in Shropshire and settle this dispute.

When he arrived at the castle he was welcomed by Sir Walter who according to custom came into the courtyard to present him with the traditional goblet of wine, which he himself first tasted to assure the King that it contained no poison, and he himself held the stirrup while the King dismounted.

Then he led the King into the castle hall where the Clifford family were waiting to welcome him. He must forgive their awkwardness, whispered Sir Walter. They were overawed at the prospect of having the King under their roof.

There was the Clifford family, Lady Clifford and her daughters - six of them. Some were married and their husbands stood behind them, but the youngest of them took the King’s eyes for she seemed to him the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

He paused before her and said, ‘You have a lovely daughter, Sir Walter.’

‘She will remember your royal compliment all her life, my lord.’

‘Nor shall I forget such beauty in a hurry. What are you called, maiden?’

‘Rosamund, Sire.’

‘Rosamund,’ he mused. ‘The Rose of the World, eh?’ Then he passed on, and was conducted to the bedchamber which was hastily being prepared for him.

All the cooks in the castle were set to work for even though the King’s eating habits were well known, every one of his hosts would want to produce the best feast of which they were capable. The King would expect it even though he did not wish to over-eat. Every acknowledgement of the honour done to them must be clearly shown.

A banquet was prepared and carried into the great hall. Sir Walter gave up the head of the table to his royal guest as he had done his bedchamber for only the best in the house was good enough for the King. For once Henry sat down to eat and he was in a more thoughtful mood than was usual. He commanded that Sir Walter’s daughter should sit beside him at the table.

She came. He was struck further by the beauty of her fair complexion, and realised he was comparing it with Eleanor’s darker one. This girl was indeed rose-like, a little fearful to have caught his interest - which he liked in her - and yet eager to please.

‘Why,’ said Henry fondly, ‘I never saw a maiden whose looks please me more.’

He took her slender white hand and held it in his for a while and then he laid out his own beside hers and laughed comparing them.

‘There you see a hand, my child, that holds the strings that lead a nation. A strong hand, Rose of the World, but not so pretty a one as yours, eh?’

‘It would not be right, Sire, for your hand to be other than it is.’

‘The right answer,’ he cried. ‘You should always think thus of your King. He is right … whatever he is. Is that what you think, my Rose?’

‘Yes, Sire. ‘Tis true, is it not?’

‘Your daughter pleases me,’ said the King to Sir Walter. ‘She hath a rare grace and beauty.’

He kept the girl with him during the evening and when night fell he said to her: ‘Hast ever had a lover, maiden?’

She blushed charmingly and said she had not.

‘Then this night you shall have one and he shall be the King.’

He stayed at the castle. Rosamund was enchanting. She had been a virgin but her father had been willing that she should be given to the King. Nor had Rosamund been reluctant; she must rejoice that the King had found her to his liking.

Sir Walter soothed his wife who would have wished their daughter to have been found a husband that she might settle down in respectable matrimony as her sisters had done.

‘Nay,’ said Sir Walter, ‘Rosamund will bring good to herself and the family. And if there should be a child, the King will care for it. To refuse our daughter to the King would anger him. They say his rages are terrible.’

‘We should have hidden our daughters.’

‘Nay, wife. Fret not. Naught but good will come of this.’

Rosamund was in love with the King. That aura of power had completely bemused her. She was an innocent girl and fearful that she lacked skills to please him, but he told her that her very innocence was at the root of her charm for him.

He found it difficult to tear himself away. He said: ‘I shall always remember my stay at your father’s castle.’

‘I shall remember it too,’ she answered.

‘You must not think of it sadly,’ he replied.

‘When you are gone I could not be anything but sad.’

How charming she was. How different from Eleanor. Was that why he was so enamoured of her? Her great quality was her gentleness, her acceptance of his masculine superiority. She was not without education but she lacked Eleanor’s erudition; she adored him and it was very pleasant for one who was surrounded by adulation to sense the complete disinterestedness of this beautiful girl.

‘I would I need not go,’ he said. ‘I would give a great deal to stay here and dally with you, my sweet Rose.’

But the Welsh were rising. He sent out an order that every archer in Shropshire must join his army and he went into battle against Owain Gwynnedd. The fighting was desperate and there were losses on both sides.

He had heard how his grandfather Henry I had often gone to Wales and how he had loved a Welsh princess Nesta, more it was said than any other of his numerous mistresses. Henry had often gone to Wales to see her, and his Queen was the last to hear of his infatuation with that woman. One of their sons, Henry after his father, was fighting with them now on his side against the Welsh.

During that battle Nesta’s son Henry was killed, and Henry the King came very near to losing his life. But for the bravery of one of his loyal soldiers he would have been killed, but the man had stood between him and his assailant and had run his sword through the Welshman’s heart before he could attack the King.

This was violent warfare and the King was determined to subdue these Welshmen. Finally he succeeded in driving them back and fortifying several castle strongholds. But he had to remind himself that it was not Wales alone that he must defend. He must return to London for how could he know that while he was engaged in Wales, trouble would not spring up in some other corner of his territories? Thus it had always been since the days of the Conqueror.

But first he would spend a little while with Rosamund. He had been thinking of her when he was not bitterly engaged in the battle. Other women had lost their appeal for him, but desperately he wanted to see this beautiful girl again.

There was great rejoicing in the castle when he arrived, and he exulted to see how pale Rosamund turned when he told the story of his exploits on the battlefield and how but for the bravery of his men - and one in particular - he would not be alive to tell the tale.

That night when Rosamund lay beside him in his bed she told him that she believed she was to have his child. He was exultant.

‘Rosamund,’ he said, ‘I love you dearly. I am a man who has known many women but have never loved - or perhaps only once - any as I love you. Think not that ours will be a light relationship and that you will see me no more. I shall come back to you … again and again.’

She was trembling with delight and he was more charmed with her than ever. She did not beg or plead or ask for favours either for herself or for her child. She was different from other women, he was sure. He thought of the demanding insolence of Hikenai and of Eleanor’s arrogance. This was indeed his Rose of the World.

‘I will find a place for you to live,’ he said, ‘and I will visit you often. I will be your husband in all but name and you will have our child there. Would you like that?’

‘If I could but see you now and then I should live for those times and thank God for them,’ she answered.

‘I shall come whenever I have the opportunity and you may be sure that I shall make many, for I am content with you, Rosamund, and you shall be as my wife to me. Had I not already a wife I would defy all to marry you and your child should be my legitimate son … or daughter. But I have a wife, a jealous wife, and I would not wish her to know of your existence, for she is rich and powerful and might do you harm. Have no fear though, I shall protect you. I shall find for you an abode which shall be a secret one and only you and I will know that it is my haven of peace and joy for therein will live my own true wife.’

He had not been sure when he had first left her that he would feel as he did now. He made promises easily and often forgot them. But Rosamund was different. He could not forget her. He was as much in love with her as he had been with Eleanor at the beginning of their acquaintance - more so for Rosamund had no rich lands to offer him and he could never quite see Eleanor without the golden shadow of Aquitaine behind her.

He decided that he would find a home for Rosamund near Oxford for he was often in or near that town, and finally he chose Woodstock.

Henry knew that there was constantly going to be trouble in his overseas possessions. If he and Eleanor were in England then there would be trouble in Normandy or Anjou or Maine or even Aquitaine. Subjects did not care that one land should be of more moment to their ruler than another. He was first King of England. That was his greatest title. He must rule England, but he was also Duke of Normandy, Duke of Aquitaine, Count of Anjou and Maine. Those monarchs who had preceded him had had the same difficulties.

Henry therefore looked about him for some means of making allies who could strengthen his position and there was one man whose support could be of the utmost use to him. This was Louis, the King of France.

He was not sure how the King would feel towards a man who had taken his wife but perhaps since Louis himself was now married he would no longer bear resentment against him. In any case Louis was a king. Petty grievances must not stand in the way of State affairs.

Louis had daughters. Oh, yes, he had two by Eleanor, Marie and Alix, and of course there could be no alliance with them. But he also had a daughter by his second marriage and Henry saw no reason why this girl should not be affianced to his son Henry. At least there could be a betrothal. If he should decide when the children were older that he did not wish the marriage to go forward he would have no compunction in cancelling it. But an alliance now when they were more or less in their cradles - Henry was three, the girl one year - would be beneficial to both him and Louis. But would Louis see this?

Louis was a man whom he despised - a weakling. Eleanor had told him much about Louis, and if he had been as eager to keep Eleanor as she implied he had been, he must have been very foolish to let her go. Louis would see reason if the case was presented to him in the right manner.

It was difficult for Henry to go to him and put the proposition before him. The man who had displaced him with Eleanor was hardly the one to come along with the proposition. He would send an emissary. He knew the very man. His Chancellor. He respected that man as he respected no other in his kingdom. He trusted Leicester and Richard de Luci, but Becket he admired and had a real affection for. Becket he often thought of as a man of genius. For a delicate matter such as this might prove to be, he was the man.

He would send for Becket and while he was in France he, Henry, would slip down to Woodstock where he was having a bower built in a wood, a haven where he planned to install his fair Rosamund and where their child should be born.

Henry never wasted time. As soon as the idea had come to him he sent for Chancellor Thomas Becket.

Chapter VIII THE RISE OF BECKET

It was not only the King who had a growing regard for Thomas Becket. The Primate Theobald had recognised a quality in the man from the moment he had come into his service.

Thomas’s origins were unusual. His father, Gilbert, had belonged to a family of merchants whose home had been in Rouen but after the Norman invasion, like so many of his kind, he had seen greater prospects in England and had come to settle in London.

During Gilbert’s childhood he had lived in the village of Thierceville and one of his childhood playmates had been a certain Theobald who had always talked of his desire to go into the Church. This he eventually did, by first entering a monastery, and later as he rose to become Archbishop of Canterbury the early friendship had some influence on the life of Gilbert’s son.

Gilbert prospered in the city of London and as he became one of its leading citizens he kept open house for visiting noblemen who were pleased to find a night or so’s shelter under his roof. There was no question of the house being an inn, but favour was given for favour, and the fact that rich and influential people were often entertained at his house meant that he was not the loser and reaped rewards for his hospitality, and with a son and two daughters Gilbert realised how beneficial this could be.

Gilbert himself was a romantic figure. Some years before the birth of his eldest child - his son Thomas - he had, like so many men of his times, decided to make a journey to the Holy Land and had set out with only one servant, a faithful man named Richard who had always served him well. After much tribulation and many hardships they reached their destination, had prayed at the tomb of Christ and feeling purged of their sins prepared to make their way back to England.

The homeward journey was to prove even more adventurous than the outward one and they had not gone very far when the party in which they travelled was surrounded by a company of Saracens, and Gilbert with Richard was taken prisoner.

It was unfortunate for him that he should have fallen into the hands of the Emir Amurath, who was said to be one of the cruellest men of his race. He enjoyed making Christians his slaves but when Gilbert and Richard were brought before him he was immediately struck by Gilbert’s appearance. There was a nobility about the man which was apparent to one even as alien as Amurath and he could not help feeling interested in him.

His first impulse was to heap additional humiliations on him but the manner in which Gilbert conducted himself defeated him. Amurath was a lover of beauty of any kind and because of Gilbert’s exceptional appearance he did not wish to maim it in any way. For a period he kept him chained in a dungeon and attempted to forget him. Gilbert’s dignity had its effect on his jailers and he became friendly with them, learning their language, and because of his determination he did this quickly.

One day the Emir was looking for amusement and suddenly remembered the Christian slave. He doubted he was as handsome and indifferent now as he had been on his arrival. He sent for him.

To his amazement Gilbert could speak his language and the Emir was impressed when he heard that he had learned it from his jailers. Gilbert hastened to explain that his jailers had done nothing but their duty but he had always been quick to pick up the language of those about him and this was what had happened.

The Emir, in spite of his cruelty, was a man of some culture, and did not care how Gilbert had learned to converse in his language. All he cared was that he could. He asked a good many questions as to what his life was like in London and he was interested too in the doctrines of the Christian faith.

So entertained had Amurath been that the next day he sent for Gilbert once more and questioned him at greater length about the manners and customs of the Western world.

Gilbert was delighted to be released from his prison for these conversational exercises which were becoming a habit, and as the Emir was fastidious in his tastes he ordered that Gilbert should bathe and be given fresh robes. This was done, and now it seemed that they met as equals. A friendship was springing up between them and the Emir decided that he would prefer Gilbert not to be taken back to his cell but to be given quarters in his palace.

Gilbert then began to live the life of a Saracen nobleman. He still however felt himself to be a prisoner and never far from his mind was the thought of escape. In his new position he came into contact with other Christians of his party who now worked as slaves in the palace. Many of them were chained about their ankles just long enough to enable them to walk but not enough length to allow them to go far. Others had halters about their necks. The one thought that was in their minds was escape. And Gilbert, in spite of his favoured position, never forgot them and was in constant communication with them in the hope of forming some plan for their release.

The fact that he was so favoured was beneficial to them all, for Gilbert could discover a great deal about the geography of the palace and the most likely means of exit should the opportunity arise.

Moreover the Emir now and then took Gilbert out with him and they would ride side by side, surrounded by a guard, and so Gilbert learned a good deal about the country.

His fellow Christians knew that he was too religious a man to desert them. His recent absolution at the tomb had cleansed him of all sin, and he would not want to incur another even if it were his nature to do so, which they were sure it was not. He joined his fellows often in prayer and the great theme of those prayers, as must be the case with all prisoners, was that Divine guidance would lead them to escape.

As the weeks passed the Emir’s interest in his captive did not wane. The more fluent Gilbert became the more profound were the discussions, and one day as reward for such lively entertainments the Emir invited Gilbert to dine at his table.

This was to have a momentous effect on Gilbert’s life because at the table were members of the Emir’s family and among them his young daughter.

The girl was very beautiful; above her yashmak her enormous eyes studied Gilbert. He was different from any man she had ever seen. His fair skin fascinated her; his proud Norman bearing impressed her deeply. She had never seen anyone like him. She curbed her excitement for she knew that it would never do for her father to see it. What would happen she could not imagine - except that it could be disastrous for her and for Gilbert. She listened to his voice which was different from others as was everything else about, him; and when the meal was over and the Christian and her father went away to sit and talk as the Emir loved to do, she retired to her apartments which she shared with the other women of the household and could think of nothing but the handsome Christian.

The Emir now made a habit of inviting Gilbert to his table and often his daughter was present. She was now in love with the strange captive, and she was certain that she would never know any happiness without him.

What could she do? She could not tell her father. She had lived the life of a girl of her people which meant that her life had been sheltered. Very soon a husband would be found for her and she would be given to him whether she liked it or not. She was a girl of great determination and she decided that she must learn more of this Christian faith for which these men of the Western world had left their comfortable homes and risked so much. She knew that Gilbert came from a place called London where he had a fine house. He had described it to her father in her presence. Yet he had left it to risk his life and perhaps face torture - for Gilbert had been singularly fortunate in falling into the hands of an enlightened man like Amurath - and all for the Christian faith.

Gilbert often went to pray in a small secluded chamber which the Emir had given him for that purpose; because he had become interested in the Christian religion through their discussions, he had no desire to put any impediment in the way of Gilbert’s continuing to worship as he did at home.

Thus Gilbert was allowed an hour’s seclusion where he might commune with God.

To his surprise when he entered one day he saw that the rich arras which hung from the wall moved slightly and from behind it emerged the Emir’s daughter.

Gilbert was amazed.

‘I did not know any was here,’ said Gilbert. ‘I will go at once.’

She shook her head. ‘Stay,’ she begged.

‘It would not be permitted,’ said Gilbert preparing to depart.

Then she answered: ‘I would learn more of the Christian faith.’

Gilbert looked at this beautiful girl and wanted to save her soul for Christianity.

‘What would you know of my faith?’ he asked.

‘I would know why your face shines when you speak of your God. I would know why you have no fear of my father, why you talk with him and disagree with him as any other of his servants would not dare.’

‘I trust in my God,’ he answered. ‘If it is His will He will protect me. If my time has come I shall go to eternal salvation. That is why I have no fear.’

‘Tell me of eternal salvation.’

He told her as it had been taught to him as a child.

‘Could I become a Christian?’ she asked.

‘You could by believing.’

‘I could believe,’ she said.

‘You will need instruction.’

‘You will instruct me?’

He looked round the apartment. ‘Your father would kill me if he found you here with me.’

‘But you are afraid.’

‘No, I am not afraid. Something tells me that it is God’s will that I shall save your soul for him.’

‘When you come to pray I shall be here,’ she said. ‘You will instruct me.’

‘Then so be it.’

They knelt together and he taught her to pray.

And that was a beginning.

Each day when he came to the chamber she was there; she was progressing with her study of his religion. He told her that she must have a Christian name and she was delighted. He called her Mahault, a version of Matilda.

‘That was the name of the wife of the greatest Norman who conquered England and brought a prosperity to both that land and to the Normans like myself who now inhabit it,’ he told her.

She was delighted with her new name. She lived for her meetings with Gilbert. She was a fervent Christian. She took wholeheartedly to the doctrine of loving one’s neighbour. Love was better than war. She could see that. People suffered continually for war and as a woman whose great joy in life would be her husband and children, how could she wish to lose them or see them suffer in that senseless preoccupation.

Indeed she was a fervent Christian.

Often Gilbert wondered what his fate would be if the Emir discovered that he had made his daughter into a Christian.

She would ply him with questions. ‘Christ died on the cross for you, would you die on the cross for him?’

He answered clearly: ‘I am ready to die for God.’

‘It is true,’ she said wonderingly, ‘for if my father knew that we had been together thus, he might devise a horrible death for you which is even more terrible than the crucifixion. Yet you have instructed me. You have made a Christian of me.’

‘I have brought you to the light, Mahault,’ he answered. ‘And if God wills that the fate which befell His only begotten Son should overtake me, then I trust I shall meet it with fortitude.’

In worshipping Gilbert’s God the Emir’s daughter had come to worship Gilbert also.

She said one day: ‘The Christian slaves plan to escape. I know it.’

‘You cannot understand their tongue,’ replied Gilbert.

‘No. But I see it in their eyes. They make their plans. They will attempt to go.’

‘Do you think they will succeed?’

‘If they do not, I tremble for them. Nevertheless they will attempt it.’ She was fearful suddenly. ‘Gilbert, what of you? If they should try, would you go with them?’

‘They are my people,’ he answered.

‘If you should go, I would wish to go with you,’ she said.

‘How could you do that, Mahault?’

‘If the slaves could escape, so could I.’

‘Nay. You are your father’s daughter. This is your home.’

‘I am a Christian now. My home is across the seas in your London.’

‘Nay,’ he said. ‘Nay, that would never do.’

‘You could take me with you when you go away.’

‘How so?’

‘You could marry me. I could be a good Christian and mother to your sons.’

‘That is not possible. You must not think of such matters.’

‘I cannot help my thoughts. The slaves are planning to escape. You will go with them and, Gilbert, I want to come too.’

‘You could never do it.’

‘Then when you go … must we say goodbye?’

‘If I were to go, we must indeed.’

‘I never would,’ she said firmly. ‘I will come with you. When the slaves band together and go away from here … or try to…. you will go with them, for you think much of your native land and your home is in London. Gilbert, you cannot leave me here because if you did I should die. I could not live without you. You have saved my soul and you must take me with you.’

He shook his head but she would not listen to his protests and he said no more of the matter.

There came a time when the long-formed plans were to be put into effect. Gilbert could arrange for horses to be waiting for them in the stables for several of the Christians were working there. They could cut their chains, and together discard their halters and get away … with Gilbert’s help.

It was dangerous and Gilbert knew that if the attempt failed this would be an end of his pleasant relationship with the Emir. Dire and terrible torments would await them all. But so great was their longing for their native land that there was not a man among them who did not wish to make the attempt.

When he was with Mahault in his sanctuary, Gilbert was tempted to tell her of the plan for she could be of great use to them, but he hesitated. For himself he would have trusted her, but he had the lives of others to consider. He said nothing.

The appointed night came. In the stables the horses were saddled and ready. Gilbert had secreted implements there by which fetters could be cut. None was suspicious, and everything worked so smoothly and according to their plan that Gilbert was certain that God was with them.

Before their escape had been discovered they were miles from the Emir’s palace and had reached a part of the country which was occupied by Christians. They joined with them and were able to proceed on the journey back to England.

When she heard that Gilbert had escaped with the other prisoners, Mahault was overcome with grief. True he had never promised to take her with him, but he had certainly cared for her. Had he not risked death and even more than death to save her soul? Had her father given his permission they would have married. But her father would never have consented to his daughter’s marrying a Christian. How could he?

But she was a Christian, a fervent Christian, and she vowed she would never be anything else. But now she had lost Gilbert and there was nothing in life she wanted but him.

She longed for death, for that paradise which Gilbert had promised her. It was all that she could hope for.

So ill did she become that the Emir could not understand what ailed her. He was angry with the Christians who had escaped. He missed his discussions with Gilbert. Life had become dull without that man. He plunged into an orgy of pleasure, living the sort of life he had lived before the coming of Gilbert, but he found nothing could give him the same pleasure as he had enjoyed in his discussions with the Christian.

As she lay in her bed, an idea came to Mahault.

Gilbert had escaped. Why should not she? She had listened to his talk at table when he had given a graphic account of the journey he had made from London to the Holy Land. If he could make a journey to her country, why should she not do so to his?

As soon as this idea came to her, her health began to improve. She would lie in bed waiting for the return of her strength while she made her plans. She knew that what she was about to do was hazardous in the extreme; it was a task which no other Saracen girl had ever undertaken. But if she died in the attempt it would be no worse than waiting here in her father’s palace until she pined away for lack of any wish to live.

‘Faith can work miracles.’ That had been one of the doctrines of Gilbert’s God who was now hers. Why should not faith work a miracle for her?

She grew well quickly; it was amazing what her faith and her belief in the certainty that she would find Gilbert did for her; and there came the day when she was ready.

She had sewn precious jewels into the humblest garments she could find, for it was not difficult to get these from her servants, and one day she walked out of her father’s palace.

The road was not often frequented between the borders of her father’s territory and that which was occupied by Christians and taking greatest care to hide herself when any pilgrims did pass, in due course she reached the borders of the Christian country.

Good fortune favoured her for as she was crossing those borders she saw a group of people, and something told her from their looks and manners that they were Gilbert’s countrymen and women.

She approached them and again she was lucky for one of them spoke her tongue. She told them the truth. She had become a Christian; she wished to escape to England where she could live according to her faith. But how could she get there?

‘You could take ship,’ she was told.

‘How could I do this?’

‘Ships leave now and then,’ was the answer. ‘We ourselves are awaiting one.’

‘I could pay for my passage,’ she told them.

They considered her. Her great determination to succeed shone from her eyes; she begged them to help her. She must go to London, she said, for there lived a man she must find.

At length they agreed to take her. Her passage would be paid for with a sapphire of great beauty and in the meantime she might join their party.

She was not surprised at such amazing luck. She believed that as she had asked for a miracle God would answer her prayers, and it was only natural that her way should be made easy.

The journey was eventful as such journeys invariably were. They narrowly escaped being taken by pirates - which might well have resulted in her being sold into slavery to her own father - and then there was a mighty storm which almost wrecked the ship.

She believed that her shining faith brought her safely through, and very soon they landed at Dover.

She knew two words in English: London and Gilbert. The first was of great use because it told everyone where she wanted to go.

She walked from the coast to the city, asking her way with the one word London and finally she was rewarded by her glimpse of London.

She would have been bewildered by the great city if she had not been certain that she was nearing the end of her quest. There was clamour such as she had never seen. In the streets were the market stalls, with goods of all variety displayed to the eyes. Everything that could be imagined was on sale there - bread, meat, clothing, milk, butter and cheeses, usually each with its separate neighbourhood. Milk and butter and cheeses were obtainable in Milk Street, and meat was for sale in Saint Martin le Grand near Saint Paul’s Cross. There was Bread Street where the smell of fresh baked bread filled the air. Goldsmiths and silversmiths, clothiers and grocers, they all had their places in these lively streets.

At this time some forty thousand people lived in the city and its environs. People were attracted to the city because of its immense activities and the gayer lives that could be enjoyed there compared with the quiet of the country. There were many churches, built by the Normans, and the sound of bells was a constant one. It was a bustling, teeming city situated on a river full of craft plying their way up and down; and the stream of the Walbrook divided the East Cheap from the West.

Everywhere were beggars - some pitiful to behold - and into these streets came the Emir’s daughter, certain because of her faith in the Christian God that she would be led to find Gilbert.

She went through the streets calling Gilbert and many took pity on her and gave her a night’s shelter; and each day she was sure that she would find the man she had come to seek.

Gilbert had reached London some months earlier. He had resumed his business and as before kept open house for visiting friends. One of these, a Norman knight named Richer de L’Aigle, a man of some culture, owned an estate in the country.

Richer always enjoyed his visits to London, largely because it meant a pleasant evening or two spent with his old friend Gilbert Becket. They would talk into the night and discuss many subjects before Gilbert lighted his old friend to bed with a waxen candle.

Richer had heard of Gilbert’s adventures in the Emir’s palace and was always interested to talk about them. Gilbert’s servant Richard, who had been at his master’s side through all that had happened, had also many a tale to tell of those adventures to his fellow-servants.

When Gilbert was telling Richer more details of how he had made the escape which would have seemed impossible, he added that he believed only Divine help had brought them home.

‘During that perilous journey,’ he said, ‘I made a vow that if I could reach home safely once more I would pay another visit to the Holy Land within ten years.’

‘So you will be going again. Do not expect the same luck next time.’

‘I shall wait for God to show me His will,’ said Gilbert solemnly, ‘and whatever it may be I shall accept it.’

‘Still, perhaps it is tempting Providence when you consider you have done it once and come safely through. Think of all those who are lost on the way.’

They were talking thus when Richard burst in upon them.

‘Master,’ he stammered, ‘I have seen … I have seen …’

‘Come, Richard, what have you seen?’ asked Gilbert.

‘A ghost it appears,’ put in Richer.

‘No, master. I have seen the Emir’s daughter.’

‘What?’ cried Gilbert.

‘I had heard that a strange woman was in the street. She was calling “Gilbert”. Just “Gilbert” again and again. I went to look at her. An apprentice told me she was close by and there she was.’

‘The Emir’s daughter, Richard. You are mistaken.’

‘Nay, master, I was not, for she saw me and she cried aloud with joy, for she knew me. She remembered me in her father’s palace.’

Gilbert had risen to his feet.

‘You must take me to her.’

‘She is here, master. She followed me.’

Gilbert hurried from the room and there standing in his doorway was Mahault. When she saw him she gave a cry of joy and fell on her knees before him.

He lifted her; he looked into her face and he spoke to her in her own tongue which she had not heard for so long.

‘You came … so far.’

‘God guided me,’ she said simply.

‘So … you hoped to find me.’

‘I knew I should, if it were His will and it is.’

Richer de L’Aigle looked on at the scene with amazement as Gilbert called for his servants to prepare hot food. She must be hungry, he said, and she was footsore and weary.

She laughed and wept with happiness. A miracle had brought her across terrifying land and sea to Gilbert.

He considered her. She was beautiful, young and ardent. She loved the Christian faith almost as much as she loved Gilbert. She was a living example of a soul that was saved.

He could not keep her in his house. That was something the proprieties would not allow and Gilbert did not know what he could do with her. There was a good and sober widow who lived close by and for whom he had been able to do some favour. He went to her, told her of his predicament and asked if she would take the strange young woman under her care until something could be settled. This she agreed to do, and Gilbert conducted her to the widow’s house where he told her she must wait awhile.

Gilbert had friends in the Church and he decided to ask the advice of some of its members as to what he could do. There was in London at the time a gathering of the bishops presided over by the Bishop of London, and since the Emir’s daughter was an infidel and would be so until she was baptised, the answer to his predicament could well come from the Church.

Before the bishops, Gilbert related his adventure, and the Bishop of Chichester rose suddenly and spoke as though he were in a dream. He said: ‘It is the hand of God and not of man which has brought this woman from so far a country. She will bear a son whose labours and sanctity will turn to the profit of the Church and the glory of God.’

These were strange words, for Gilbert had not mentioned the thought of marrying her - although it had entered his head. They sounded like a prophecy. Gilbert was then filled with a desire to marry the Emir’s daughter and have a son by her.

‘It would be necessary,’ said the Bishop of London, ‘for her to be baptised. If she agrees to this then you should marry her.’

Gilbert went to Mahault and told her this. Her eyes sparkled with happiness. Most joyfully would she be baptised. She had come to England for this - and to marry Gilbert.

So they were married and very soon she became pregnant. She was certain that she would bear a son who was destined for greatness.

Thus before Thomas was born he had made his impact on the world.

The daughter of the Emir, now baptised as Mahault, was the most devout of Christians. She was the happiest of women for God had shown her a miracle. She had asked and had been given. She was the wife of Gilbert, a fact which would have seemed impossible while she was in her father’s palace. Here it was the most natural thing in the world. Surely a miracle.

And when very soon after the marriage she was pregnant, she was certain that she was going to have a son. The Bishop of Chichester had prophesied this. God had brought her through great difficulties; she had made a journey which many would have said was impossible; she had come to a strange country knowing only two words: ‘London’ and ‘Gilbert’. The first was easy to find; and God had brought her to the second.

She began to have visions. Her son was going to be a great man. It was to bear this son that God had brought her here. She dreamed of him; always she saw him in those dreams surrounded by a soft light. He would be a Christian and his life would be dedicated to God. It seemed likely that he would be a man of the Church and the highest office in the Church was that of an archbishop.

‘I know my son will be an archbishop,’ she said.

Gilbert was uneasy. He was no longer a man who could go where he would. He had a wife and soon he would have a child.

She sensed his fears and asked him what ailed him. He told her then that he had made a vow to God that if he arrived home safely, he would visit the Holy Land again and he feared that now he had such responsibilities he would be unable to keep his promise to God.

She smiled at him. ‘You have made a promise to God,’ she said, ‘and that promise must be kept. Do not think of me. If Richard remains with me, as he speaks my tongue, I shall be well enough; and soon I shall speak English, for I must do so since I am to care for my son.’

In due course her child was born. It was a boy, as she had known it would be, and when the midwife held him in her arms, Mahault heard a voice say, ‘It is an archbishop we are holding.’

She could not ask the midwife what she meant by that because she could not make herself understood, but later she asked Gilbert to find out why the woman had made such a remark. The midwife’s answer was that she had said no such thing.

The boy was called Thomas and he was the delight of his mother’s life. She was sure that nothing was too good for him. His education must be of the best. In the meantime since Gilbert had made his promise to God he should keep it without delay for when the boy grew older he would need a father more than he did when he was too young to recognise him.

So Gilbert went off to the Holy Land once more and Mahault devoted herself to looking after her son and learning English.

Her premonitions as to his future greatness continued. One night she dreamed that the nurse had left the baby without a quilt in his cradle and when she reproved her, the nurse replied: ‘But my lady, he is covered with a beautiful quilt.’ ‘Bring it to me here,’ she had answered, thinking to prove that the nurse was deceiving her. The nurse came with a large quilt of a beautiful crimson cloth. She put it on her mistress’s bed and attempted to unfold it, but the more she unfolded the larger it grew, and they took it to the largest room in the house because it was too big to unfold in a smaller one. Nor could it be unfolded there so they took it into the street. But they could not unfold it because the more they tried to the bigger the quilt grew, and suddenly it began to unfold itself and covered the street and houses around them, and went on and on, and they knew it had reached the end of the land.

She awoke from this dream with the certainty that it had especial significance, which was that her son Thomas was destined for greatness.

Because she could not be thankful enough to the God of her new religion who had brought her safely to London that she might bear this son, she would have him weighed often and give to the poor a weight of clothes or food equal to that of the boy.

She would talk to him of the need to be good and serve God. and how this could best be done by caring for others.

‘Always help those poorer than yourself, my little one,’ she would say. ‘That is a good way to serve God.’

Gilbert returned after three and a half years to find that at the age of four, young Thomas was already showing signs of great intelligence. Gilbert was glad to be home; he would make no more vows. Two trips to the Holy Land should be enough to placate his Maker for he had never been guilty of anything but the most venial sins.

He soon became as certain as Mahault was that there was something special about their son.

In the next few years they had two more children. These were daughters, good bright pleasant girls, but Thomas was apart from them. Sir Richer de L’Aigle had become an even more frequent visitor than he had been in the past. He had been fascinated by the account of Mahault’s determination to find Gilbert; he declared he would not have believed it possible for a young woman to find her way with nothing more to guide her than two words. He was of the opinion that only Divine providence could have brought her to Gilbert and his interest in their unusual son grew.

As soon as Thomas was old enough his father put him in the care of the Canons of Merton to whom many well-born people sent the sons they hoped would enter the Church.

‘This would be but the beginning,’ Gilbert confided to his wife. ‘Afterwards Thomas must attend one of the great seats of learning, but Merton is a good beginning and it would mean that he was not too far from us.’

At Merton Thomas was soon surprising his teachers by his ability to learn and so confirming his parents’ certainty that he was destined for a great future. It so happened that during harvest time when the great concern was to bring in the corn, the pupils of Merton were sent to their homes to get them out of the way, and during one summer Richer de L’Aigle happened to call on the Beckets. Finding Thomas there, home from school, he suggested that he take him with him to his residence at Pevensey Castle and there instil into him the gracious art of living like a nobleman. Thomas took to the life with as much eagerness as he had taken to learning.

Richer instructed him how to ride like a knight, how to hunt with a falcon and all the accomplishments which could not have been acquired in his London home.

So successful was this stay at Pevensey Castle and so fond had the young knight grown of Thomas that the invitation was repeated often. Mahault was delighted; she saw the change in her son. He had become fastidious in his dress; he spoke not only like a scholar but like a gentleman and she believed that God had sent Richer de L’Aigle into their lives that Thomas might be groomed to take one of the highest positions in the country.

When Thomas was sufficiently educated to have earned his own living doing clerical work for a merchant of London, he left Merton, but his parents had plans for him. The centre of learning was said to be in Paris and no other place would be good enough for Thomas. So to Paris went Thomas.

There he perfected his knowledge of the French language, his great aim being to speak it as a Frenchman; his easy manners - learned at Pevensey Castle - enabled him to mingle with members of high society and he found he had a taste for their company. No one would have guessed that the elegant Thomas was the son of a merchant; and Thomas’s great ambition at this time was to play a brilliant part in the world where he gained the respect of men and women and lived in comfort and luxury.

When he returned to London he had the manners of a nobleman although he was educated far beyond most of them; and although she clung to her belief in the dreams and portents which she swore had come to her, even his mother had to admit that Thomas appeared to have no inclination towards the Church. Instead he became interested in business and joined the municipal administration of London. Here his alert mind immediately called attention to him and many rich merchants who were friends of his father sought to get him to join them in the management of their businesses.

Mahault was not dismayed, so certain was she of his destiny. For several years she had suffered during the winter from a persistent cough, and the damp mist of the river after the dry sunny climate of her native land was having an ever-worsening effect upon her health. Strangely enough one of her daughters showed a desire for the religious life and was found a place in a convent at Barking; the other married a London merchant. They were happily settled; the only one not was Thomas. That would come, she was convinced. So great was his destiny that he must have experience of many ways of life before he realised it.

He was twenty when Mahault died. He was with her at the end and on his knees told her of his love and gratitude. She lay smiling at him thinking of the day she had first seen Gilbert and had loved him and his God. She would not have had it otherwise, for she believed that everything that had happened to her had been but a preparation for Thomas.

‘God has chosen you, my son,’ she said, her eyes glowing with prophecy. ‘I was brought out of my native land that I might give birth to you.’

And so convincing was she that Thomas believed her; and afterwards in his most trying moments he would remember the conviction in the eyes of his dying mother and a belief in himself would come to him, a belief which refused to accept failure.

Mahault’s death was the first blow. Without her the household was a dull one. Gilbert seemed to lose heart in his business; Thomas was desolate. He no longer took pleasure in following the pursuits he had learned at Pevensey Castle. He knew that he had delighted too much in being on equal terms with the rich and well-born. He could think of little but the loss his mother’s passing had made in his life, and he reproached himself that he had not realised what she meant to him until he had lost her.

A fearful disaster struck Gilbert when his house and business premises were burned to the ground. Once a blaze started in the wooden structure there was little hope of stemming it. His losses were great. The shock of this in addition to his wife’s death had a deep effect on Gilbert. He had lost too much, and with it the will to rebuild his business. Within a few months he was dead.

Thomas was alone.

He became melancholy. He gave up hunting and staying at the houses of his friends who in the past had delighted in his company. It seemed that he was adopting the life of a recluse when Theobald the Archbishop of Canterbury asked him to visit him.

Theobald, who had played with Gilbert when they lived in their Norman village, had heard of Gilbert’s death and wished to renew his acquaintance with Gilbert’s son.

They met, and there was an immediate affection between them. Theobald was lonely in his high office and saw in Thomas the son he had never had.

To Theobald, Thomas could talk of his parents and Theobald listened intently. Their minds were in tune. When Thomas visited the Archbishop, Theobald was always loath to let him go and the visits became more and more frequent.

Then one day Theobald said: ‘Thomas, come into my household. There is much work for you to do. I need someone who will work with me, who will be close to me, whom I can trust.’

Thomas hesitated. ‘Should I be starting out on a career in the Church?’ he asked.

‘Why should you not? You are fitted for it. Come, Thomas. Think of this.’

For some time Thomas considered. Whither was he going? He knew that till now he had been marking time. He thought of his mother’s dreams of the archbishop’s quilt and he knew that he must go to Theobald.

So when he was twenty-five years of age Thomas Becket joined the household of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

The Archbishop’s palace was a manor house situated at Harrow on the Hill. Here he lived in a state which befitted his position. His power was great. He was more than head of the Church; he had the power to select certain officials of State; and his authority was second only to that of the King. Theobald was rich, for he possessed many castles and manors throughout the country, and from all over the world distinguished men came to visit him.

Thomas, after the years he had spent working in municipal affairs and in a merchant’s counting-house, was amazed at the life into which he felt he had been thrust, and he realised that he had much to learn if he were to take his place in it.

Theobald had a special interest in him and was certain that in a few years’ time Thomas would be ready for a high office. At the time of his arrival, however, he lacked the learning of the clerics in the Archbishop’s household and immediately set about remedying that. His innate elegance, his perfect manners, the purity of his existence and his dedication to learning soon won the admiration of the Archbishop and those who wished him well, but ambitious young men in the Archbishop’s household were beginning to regard Thomas with envious eyes.

Why should Thomas Becket be specially favoured by the Archbishop? Who was Thomas Becket? The son of a merchant! And what was that rumour about a Saracen woman? Was this merchant’s son, this clerk, going to be put above them? There was no doubt that this young man among all those whom he gathered together in his household in order that they should be prepared to play their part in the Church, was his favourite.

In the evenings when it was too dark to read or study they would gather about the Archbishop’s table and there talk of matters temporal and spiritual. The Archbishop was deeply concerned with matters of State and as there had been continual strife in the country since the death of Henry I, politics were discussed at great length; and it was invariably the enormously tall dark-haired man whose comments impressed the company. It was clear to everyone that he was an unusual man. His very appearance set him apart. He was so tall that there was not a man in the palace who came within four inches of him. With his commanding presence he would dominate any scene. No one could have looked less like a man of the Church. His dark eyes inherited from his mother were keen and bright; his big nose was almost hawk-like. His frame was spare for he ate very little and consequently he felt the cold and had to wear many garments. His servant Richard who had come with him from his father’s house made sure that the little he ate was very nourishing, and he would cook beef and chicken for him. He feared Thomas might become ill, and since he ate so little he must derive the utmost goodness from what he did.

This was Thomas Becket then, a man who could not fail to be noticed; a man, it was said, of comparatively humble origins whose manners surpassed those of the most nobly born; a man who was aesthetic and fastidious; a man who loved to ride and take part in the pleasures of hawking and yet spent long hours on his knees. He had never been known to cast lustful eyes on any member of the opposite or his own sex.

There was no doubt that Thomas was a very extraordinary man. The Archbishop thought so and watching him closely marked him for promotion, although this would mean setting him above others who were more conventionally suitable.

Among those who were studying with Thomas under the tuition of the Archbishop was a very clever young man named Roger de Pont l’Eveque. He had been the brightest of all Theobald’s pupils until Thomas had come. He was destined for the highest posts; he was an expert on canon law and before Thomas had eclipsed him had been a great favourite with the Archbishop.

Roger was both arrogant and sensual, and he hated Thomas not only for his brilliance as a scholar but for the fact that he could not be lured into any adventure which could have discredited him in the eyes of Theobald.

Roger himself had had a very narrow escape. His career as a churchman of high rank might have been irrevocably ruined. The story was that Roger had become enamoured of a very handsome boy whom he had forced to submit to his lust. The boy, Walter, had complained of this and Roger was brought to trial. Roger was a man of power with many influential friends and by means of bribery and threats had won his case against the boy who in his turn was accused of lying and attempting to bring into disrepute a highly respected member of the Church. The bribed judge found that the boy was guilty; his eyes were put out and he was hanged.

Roger had escaped the consequences of his ill-doing and had managed to deceive many - including the Archbishop - into believing in his innocence, but among others he was suspect. He even admitted to a few - in secret - that he had brought disgrace and contempt on the Church.

Roger was the chief of Thomas’s enemies, and he determined to get him removed from the Archbishop’s palace. But Thomas was fortunate in the fact that Theobald’s brother Walter, who was Archdeacon of Canterbury, had a faith in his ability which nothing could shake, and which was even greater than that which Theobald had for him.

Roger, by reason of his undeniable brilliance, was at this time the leading scholar at Harrow and at the head of the line for promotion, which meant that he was closer to the Archbishop than any of the others. By cleverly pointing out the unusual traits in Thomas’s character he contrived to convince Theobald that, clever as Thomas might be, he was not of the kind to succeed in the Church.

Theobald considered this and for a time banished Thomas from his palace. The Archbishop’s brother Walter, however, took Thomas into his home and kept him there for a while until he could persuade Theobald to take Thomas back. This was an indication of what a powerful enemy Thomas had in Roger, as he was banished on two occasions and was obliged to stay with Walter until the time when Theobald could be persuaded to ask him to return.

When Walter became Bishop of Rochester, Roger received the appointment for which he was waiting and he became Archdeacon of Canterbury.

With Roger in such a post this could have meant the end of Thomas’s ambitions, but by this time he was so firmly established in Theobald’s regard that nothing could dislodge him. He was then constantly in the company of the Archbishop. When Theobald was at odds with the Crown and was temporarily exiled, Thomas accompanied him to France.

There came the time when King Stephen died and Henry Plantagenet ascended the throne. In the year 1154 Roger became Archbishop of York which meant that the post of Archdeacon of Canterbury was vacant. It seemed to Theobald then that no one could fit this post better than Thomas Becket.

That Henry had the makings of a great king was obvious to all, but at the same time he was a man of such violent passion that Theobald felt disturbed. To hold in check such a man was going to be rather like taming a wild horse and it was clear that the King was of a temper to brook no restraint.

It had in the past been almost a habit with kings to quarrel with the Church. Theobald who had now and then been in disagreement with Stephen realised that it would be a very different matter to resist the wishes of Henry.

Theobald discussed the matter with Henry, Bishop of Winchester, brother of King Stephen, and one of the most powerful churchmen in the country.

‘The King,’ said Henry of Winchester, ‘needs to be held in check and in such a manner that he will not realise that the reins which control him are there. Only the right sort of Chancellor could manage this. We must find the right man. If we do not I see great trouble between the Church and State and we shall find that Henry Plantagenet is not the mild man my brother Stephen was.’

‘That’s true,’ said Theobald. ‘What we need is a man who can be a friend to the King, who can persuade him subtly so that he will not know he is persuaded.’

‘Do you know such a man?’ asked Henry of Winchester.

Theobald was thoughtful; then a slow smile spread across his face. ‘Yes, I think I do. There is my Archdeacon, Thomas Becket.’

‘Becket,’ mused the Bishop. ‘A man of humble origins.’

‘A man who has risen above his origins. You would not find a man in all England who could please the King better.’

‘I fancy the King is not over-fond of those of our profession.’

‘Becket is unlike the rest of us. I have often felt I should reprove him for his worldliness and yet I know he is the least worldly of men. He keeps a good table, yes, but that is for others; he himself eats most frugally. His clothes are elegance itself and he keeps hawks, dogs and horses; but he gives lavishly to the poor. He is the man. He could meet the King on his own level. He could make sport with him and hunt with him; and the King has moments when he likes good conversation; he would have his fill of that with Becket. Becket is the man. A man of the Church who is yet a man of the world.’

The Bishop was inclined to be dubious but after he had spent a little time with Thomas he came to the view that the best thing for England and the Church would be to make Thomas Becket its Chancellor.

Thus at the age of thirty-five Thomas was raised to this high office. He was delighted with his new status, not because of the honours it brought him but because there was so much in the country that he could put right.

For some years now the civil war had been over but during it many men who had lost their castles or humbler homes had been driven to the forest where they became outlaws and robbers. The Chancellor was determined that these men should be hunted down and that the roads might be safe as they had been in the days of William the Conqueror and his son Henry I; he was anxious that the fields should be tilled as they had been before the beginning of the war. He wanted to bring back justice to the courts; he encouraged those who considered themselves ill done by to bring their grievances to him.

Any good man determined to bring justice to England could have done this, but there was something more Thomas could do. He could charm the King. Theobald had told him that it was because it was believed he had the power to do this that he had been chosen for this task. He could be amusing, witty and entertaining; and it was his duty to amuse the King. By becoming an intimate friend of the King he would understand his moods; he could guide him without the King’s knowing he was being guided. He was enough of a courtier to be perfectly at home in royal society; he had learned riding, hawking and chess at Pevensey Castle, so he was at ease in the King’s circle. None would know that he had not had the same upbringing as any of the King’s courtiers and the King himself for that matter. It was for this reason that he had been chosen.

It was remarkably easy.

‘Bring this churchman to me,’ Henry had said, ‘that I may tell him I’ll not have any churchman preach to me.’

But when he saw the man he was amazed. That strange quality which commanded the respect of all men was immediately apparent to the King. This tall elegant man who could be witty and amusing, who could ride beside him talking of frivolous court matters, who could with the same ease plunge into a serious conversation such as enthralled Henry, aroused his interest to such an extent that often when he was at a gathering he would look about him and say: ‘Where’s Becket? Where’s my Chancellor?’ And when Thomas was brought to him he would laugh at him and say, ‘Ha, Becket, I missed you. Let us escape and go off together where we can talk.’

Theobald and Henry of Winchester watched the growing friendship of the two and congratulated themselves on the wisdom of that plan of theirs to set up Thomas Becket as Chancellor so that he might influence the King.

Henry was delighted. One of Thomas’s first acts was to refurbish the King’s palace in the Tower of London.

Henry liked the work that was done there. ‘Why, Becket,’ he said, ‘I should have thought as a churchman you would have thought of succouring the poor rather than pampering their King.’

‘A pampered king is more likely to pamper his poor subjects than one who is so ill housed that his temper is frayed,’ answered Thomas.

‘His temper frays, Becket, well housed or not.’

‘Since he admits this doubtless time and the help of God will improve it.’

‘That fellow makes me laugh,’ said Henry of his Chancellor and he saw more and more of Thomas. He showed clearly that he liked his company.

Thomas had not been Chancellor a year when Henry declared: ‘I never thought to make a friend of a churchman, but I swear this man seems to me the best friend I ever had.’

He would call on him without warning. He would shout: ‘Come out, Becket. I’d have speech with you.’

Sometimes he sat and drank wine with him. It amused him that Becket with a sip or two could tell the quality of wine and talk of it, but rarely drank much himself.

Henry liked to plague him while he admired him.

‘A churchman,’ he would say, ‘yet you live like a king.’

‘Rather say a king lives like a churchman.’

Every day fresh rushes were strewn on his floors; he used green boughs in summer and hay in winter; but it must always be fresh.

‘Your cleanliness is greater than your godliness,’ pointed out the King.

‘Why should not the two go hand in hand, Sire?’ asked Becket.

‘Is it meet for a man of God to display fine gold and silver plate on his table?’

‘If he puts them there for love of his friends,’ answered Becket.

The King would put an arm about the Chancellor’s shoulders. ‘One of these days I will show you for the coxcomb you are,’ he mocked. ‘Look at your table; look at your home! Should you not go out into the world with rod and scrip and preach religion?’

‘I go out with the rod of my office and preach of justice,’ replied Thomas.

‘Good Thomas, you amuse me and for that I would forgive you all your sins.’

‘Let us hope, sire, that that other King who alone can pardon our sins is as lenient with you.’

And so they grew closer together and hardly a day passed when Becket was not in the company of the King.

Chapter IX THE ABBESS BRIDE

While Eleanor was awaiting the birth of her child in the palace and Rosamund was at Woodstock also awaiting the King’s child, Henry sent for Becket as he wished to discuss the proposed marriage between his son Henry and the little Princess of France.

He was as usual delighted to see the Chancellor.

‘I know not how you will find the French King,’ said Henry. ‘As you know the Queen was his wife and she rid herself of him to marry me.’

‘I know it well,’ said Becket.

‘He was somewhat jealous I believe, and loath to let the Queen go, but the Queen was determined. She’s a determined woman as you know also, Chancellor.’

‘I had gathered so,’ answered Thomas.

‘Now this methinks is a situation which will appeal to your humour as it appeals to mine. My son and the Queen’s son Henry shall be the bridegroom of Louis’s daughter by his second marriage. Do you think that is not an amusing situation?’

‘I think it a very suitable one, my lord, since it will secure alliance with the King of France and little could be more beneficial to you at this time.’

‘So thought I,’ said the King. ‘It is years before the marriage can take place. My son is three years old. The Princess Marguerite is one. But that will be no impediment to the ceremony as it would be to the consummation. We shall not put the babies to bed together … yet.’

‘I should think not.’

‘Poor innocents! Still it is the lot of royal children. You should be thankful, Chancellor, that you were not a royal boy or they might have married you when you were in your cradle and that would not have been to your liking, would it?’

‘I have never had any fancy for the marriage bond.’

‘Nay, you’re a strange man, Becket. You care nothing for women which seems strange to a man like myself who cares very much for them. You know not what you miss. It is a taste which never wearies. It is only that one wishes now and then to change one’s partner in the game.’

‘The Queen would not wish to hear such sentiments expressed.’

‘You are right, Becket. My Queen is a woman of strong opinions. You will have to mind your step with her … as even I do.’

‘The Queen is one who is accustomed to being obeyed.’

‘Indeed you speak the truth. I have managed very well during our life together. I always contrive to see that she is either going to have a child or having one. It is a very good way of curbing her desire to rule.’

‘It is not one which can continue for ever.’

‘As the Queen tells me. She says when this one is born there must be a respite.’

‘It is better for her health that this should be so.’

‘I am expecting a child in another quarter, Becket.’

‘I grieve to hear it, Sire.’

The King burst into loud laughter and slapped Becket on the back.

‘You know full well that a king who cannot get heirs is a curse to the nation.’

‘I know it is well for a king to get legitimate heirs.’

‘My grandfather used to say that it is well for a king to have children - inside and outside wedlock, for those who are of royal blood will be loyal to it.’

‘It is not an infallible recipe for loyalty, sire.’

‘Oh come, Becket, you are determined to reproach me. I won’t have it. Do you hear me?’

‘I hear very well, my lord.’

‘Then take heed for if you offend me I could turn you from your office.’

‘My lord must turn me from it if he will and I shall pray that he finds another to serve him as well as I should.’

‘I never would, Thomas. I know it and for this I will stomach a little of your preaching. But not too much, man. Remember it.’

‘I will remember, my lord.’

‘You have seen my fair Rosamund, Becket. Is she not beautiful? More so in her present state than when I first saw her. It surprises me that my feeling for her does not pall. I love the girl, Becket. You are silent. Why do you stand there with that smug expression on your face? How dare you judge me, Thomas Becket! Are you my keeper?’

‘I am your Chancellor, my lord.’

‘Not for long … if I wish it. Remember that, Becket. And if you are going to tell me that I should give up Rosamund I am going to fall into a temper, and you know my tempers, Thomas.’

‘I know them well, Sire.’

‘They are not pleasant to behold, I believe.’

‘There you speak truth, my lord.’

‘Then it would be well for those around me not to provoke them. I have settled her at Woodstock and I am having a bower built there. A house in the forest … surrounded by a maze of which only I shall know the secret. What think you of that?’

‘That it is a plan worthy of you, my lord.’

The King narrowed his eyes and laughed again.

‘You amuse me, Thomas,’ he said. ‘You stand in judgement. You reproach me. You disapprove of me, but you amuse me. For some reason I have chosen to make you my friend.’

‘I am also your Chancellor, Sire,’ said Becket. ‘Shall we discuss the mission to France?’

For such a mission Thomas could display great magnificence without any feeling of shame. All the scarlet and gold trappings which he so much enjoyed could be brought into play without any feeling of guilt on his part because what he was doing now was for the glory of England. He could not go into France like a pauper. During his journey he must impress all who beheld him with the might and splendour of England.

A troop of soldiers accompanied the procession, besides butlers and stewards and other servants of the household; there were members of the nobility who were to form part of the embassy, and of his own household he took two hundred horsemen. He had brought dogs and birds as well as twelve pack-horses with their grooms, and on the back of each horse sat a long-tailed ape. The procession was followed by wagons which carried Thomas’s clothes and others in which were stored the garments of the rest of the party with gifts which would be judicially distributed at the court of France. And after these were larger wagons one of which was furnished as a chapel for Thomas’s use, and another for his bedchamber. In yet another were utensils for cooking so that the party could stop wherever was deemed desirable.

As this magnificent cavalcade - the like of which had never been seen before - passed through France, people came out of their houses to watch it.

‘What manner of man can the King of England be?’ they asked each other. ‘He must be the richest man in the world since this man, who is only his Chancellor and servant, travels in such state.’

News was brought to Louis that the Chancellor was on his way and that the magnificence of his retinue had startled everyone who had seen it. Determined not to be outdone he gave orders that when the party arrived in Paris no merchant was to sell his goods to any member of the English party. France was to be host to the English and they must have what they would and there should be no question of their paying.

Thomas guessed that this might be the King’s wish and in order not to put himself under any obligation - which might be detrimental to his mission - he sent his servants out secretly to buy any provisions they would need. He did however accept lodgings at the Temple. There he kept a sumptuous table of which all who came to see him were invited to partake.

In the face of such extravagance the French could only retaliate in kind. They must not be made to look less hospitable, less elegant, less generous than the English.

Louis received Thomas with every honour. How could he refuse the hand of his daughter to the son of a king who came to him in such a manner?

He had at first been uneasy. His little daughter Marguerite was but a year old. Poor child, how innocent she was, unaware as yet as to what this mission meant! She would in time go to the English court there to be brought up as the bride of Henry who would, if all went well, become the King of England with little Marguerite that country’s Queen.

Louis still thought of Eleanor and that state of passion to which she had introduced him. He feared he would never forget her and even now he was reminded of how she had left him, and almost immediately her divorce was secured had married Henry Plantagenet whose mistress she had already been.

And now Eleanor’s son by another man, and his daughter by another woman …

It was an unconventional situation but such there would always be with a woman like Eleanor. He wondered whether she often thought of him.

But that was a question he could not ask the King’s Chancellor. He must agree with his ministers that it was an alliance destined to bring good to both countries. It should ensure peace between them and peace was what the people desired more than anything.

The Chancellor in his magnificence had delighted the people of France. Louis made no objections to the proposed match. In fact he welcomed it.

Thomas was well pleased. This important mission had been achieved with the utmost success.

In the miniature palace close to his own at Woodstock the King visited Rosamund Clifford. He was delighted with the dwelling he had built for her. He called it Rosamund’s Bower. It was a fairy house and here she could live secluded while the royal party was in residence at the palace, and he could slip away to be with her with the utmost ease. It had amused him to create a maze of which only he, Rosamund and those who served her, should have the secret. He had not even confided the secret to Thomas. He was not entirely sure of Thomas. He could not understand a man who was not interested in sexual pleasure with women. There were times when he suspected Thomas of indulging in secret what other men talked of openly. He always hoped that one of these days he would catch Thomas. The thought amused him. He often thought what pleasure it would have been for him if he and Thomas could have gone out adventuring together. The fact was there was no man’s company he enjoyed more. Thomas’s love of extravagance was greater than his own for he was a plain man and hated wearing the garments of royalty. In fact he had, at the Easter church ceremonies, laid his crown on the altar and sworn that he would never wear it again.

‘There it stands,’ he had said, ‘as the sovereign’s symbol. That symbol loses nothing because it stands in a place as well guarded as it is on my head. Let no man mistake me. I am the King. But I do not need a crown to make me so. I stand here, your King by right of birth and on the throne I shall remain, but I can serve my country better by making just laws and defending it from all who would subdue it, by the power of my strong arm and the wisdom of my mind and these can work better when not hampered by a crown on my head.’

There he stood, this man who was neither tall nor short, whose hands were chapped with the wind; his tunic short that he might the easier move about, with his unbounded energy, his fierce temper which was terrifying to behold and his complete kingliness. He was right. He did not need a crown to proclaim him King of England. No man could look at him and doubt it.

And yet he came secretly to Woodstock. In his heart he knew it was due to his tenderness for Rosamund. He wanted no harm to befall her. He wanted to keep her the pure and innocent girl she was - the complete contrast to Eleanor. Perhaps he was a little afraid of Eleanor. He would not admit that fear. Yet she could be a scheming woman and he could not be sure what revenge she would take on him.

It was because of Eleanor that he wished to keep his liaison with Rosamund secret.

He found her feeding the swans on the lake before the little palace.

She stood up with a cry of pleasure when she saw him. She was noticeably pregnant and it occurred to him again that she was even more beautiful than when he had first seen her. There was a serenity about her countenance. She had already the motherly look.

He took her hands and kissed them. ‘So my Rose is glad to see her King.’

She nodded as though her emotion at beholding him were so great she could not trust herself to speak.

Ashamed of his own feelings he touched her stomach jocularly. ‘And the boy?’

‘He fares well. But what if it should be a girl? I trust you will not be displeased.’

‘Nay, nay,’ he said, ‘I’ll forgive her if she has one tenth of the charm and beauty of her mother.’

Arms about each other they went into the house.

There he stayed for the night. It was idyllic, there to live like a simple man. He did not delude himself into wishing that he had been born to such a life. He was too enamoured of his kingship, but it was pleasant for a spell to live simply under the adoring eyes of a beloved mistress.

Thomas should see me now, he thought. Perhaps he would try to explain his feelings to Thomas.

No, no. Not even Thomas. No one should know how this beautiful innocent girl affected him.

The child would soon be born and she was to have the best attention.

‘When I return from France I’ll come and see the child,’ he told her.

The thought of his departure to France always upset her. She visualised all kinds of dangers. She begged him to take care.

He laughed at her, but tenderly. How could a king take care?

‘It’s a peaceful mission. I go to see Louis to make terms for the marriage of my son and his daughter. He has already agreed. My good Chancellor got his agreement and I go to seal the alliance and bring the child away with me, for if she is to marry my son she must be brought up in my kingdom.’

‘Poor child! Poor mother!’

‘Ah, Rosamund, be thankful that you are not a royal mother. How much happier you will be with your child in your little bower awaiting the arrival of your lord and master. And I swear to you that he will come to you whenever it is possible for him to do so and this child you carry shall have great honours and never regret, if I can help it, the day the King set eyes on the fairest Rose in all the world.’

He left her content with her lot; her only anxiety what dangers he might face across the sea.

What joy to be with one whose love was selfless, who asked nothing, no honours - except perhaps for their child - nothing for herself! She prayed not for herself but for him and the child.

He thought: Had she been my wife, I would have been a happier man.

How different was Eleanor. He would be going to France and she must perforce stay in England because she was once more with child.

‘I promise you,’ she raved, ‘there shall be no more of this. Since I married you it has been one child after another.’

‘You have a fine nursery full, my Queen,’ said Henry. ‘There are many queens who have prayed and made their pilgrimages in the hope of getting one son. You have two and who knows the next which I have kindly implanted in you may well be another boy. Think of it. Three boys in your nursery!’

‘Not to mention the little bastard you have brought to us.’

‘Young Geoffrey. How fares he?’

‘I do not make it my concern to discover.’

‘You’re a jealous woman, Eleanor.’

She did not answer. She would never forgive him for that bastard son. While she had been in love with him - and thought constantly of him - he had been sporting with other women and cared so much for this one it seemed that when she produced a child he brought it into the nursery.

‘What would I not give to be crossing the sea with you.’

‘I am flattered that you so much enjoy my company.’

‘It is not you I wish to be with,’ she said. ‘I wish to see my own fair land of Aquitaine.’

‘That you might sit in the gardens and surround yourself with soft-eyed singers who laud your charms and pretend to be in love with you?’

‘Why should they pretend?’

‘Because you are no longer young and the bearing of children does not beautify a woman but adds to her years. They would feign to set you up as the Queen of Love. And why? Because you are the Queen of England, that is why.’

‘Have done,’ she said. ‘When this child is born I shall go once more to Aquitaine.’

He nodded, smiling derisively at her, but his thoughts were far away in the bower of his fair Rosamund.

Soon afterwards he left for France.

A message came from his mother. She wished him to call at Nantes where she was staying with his brother Geoffrey.

Matilda met her son with the pleasure she always showed on seeing him. They embraced and she looked at him anxiously.

‘How fares it in England?’ she wanted to know.

‘All is well. I have left the government in capable hands. I have the best man in the world for Chancellor. And Eleanor knows how to rule.’

‘It was a good marriage,’ said Matilda.

Henry grimaced. ‘She’s an overbearing woman.’

Matilda could find no fault with that. No one could have been more overbearing than herself.

‘I wished you to come here,’ she said, ‘because of Geoffrey.’

‘Geoffrey again! Not plotting against me once more?’

‘Geoffrey will never plot against you again.’

‘You are hoping for a miracle.’

‘Nay, my son. Your brother Geoffrey is grievously sick. I fancy he will never leave his bed again.’

‘Geoffrey … but he is so young!’

‘Death strikes down the young as well as the old. You must make sure you lose nothing by his death.’

‘His death! You cannot mean this!’

‘You shall see for yourself. I wished to prepare you.’

She went with him into the chamber where Geoffrey lay.

‘Geoffrey, my son,’ she said, ‘your brother is here.’

Geoffrey smiled wryly. ‘The King of England,’ he muttered.

‘I am here,’ said Henry. He knelt by the bed and looked anxiously into his brother’s face. ‘What ails you, Geoffrey?’

‘My time has come. It was a short stay, was it not?’

‘Nay, you’ll recover.’

‘Is that a command?’

‘You should take it as such.’

‘You always wanted to command us all. But you cannot command Death, brother.’

‘You talk nonsense. You will recover.’

‘I think not. So you rule England now as well as Normandy which was to have been mine.’

‘I paid you for it, remember?’

‘I remember your promise to pay me a pension. I don’t recall receiving much of it.’

‘There are many calls on a king’s purse.’

‘I know, I know. And it is of no moment now.’

‘You had Brittany. You got that by my good graces.’

‘For which I must be grateful. Were not the dogs grateful for the crumbs which fell from the rich man’s table?’

‘They were indeed, but I was never a rich man, brother, and you never a dog.’

‘Not with England and Normandy and … what else is it, brother? I’ll swear now it will be Brittany.’

‘Geoffrey, let us be friends.’

Geoffrey smiled and held out his hand. ‘It is always good to be friends with a dying man. Fear not that I should ever seek to haunt you with reproaches, brother. I was always proud to be your brother. You were our mother’s favourite. She loved you. You must have had very special qualities to be loved by her.’ He smiled. ‘Do you remember how she hated our father?’

Henry bowed his head.

‘And he is dead now. And I shall soon follow him. You will go on and on to greater glory, Henry. It was good of you to come to my deathbed. Or did you come for Brittany?’

Henry looked at his brother with sorrowing eyes. He was thinking of how they had played together in their youth; but he was also thinking of Brittany. How could he help it? The Dukes of Normandy had always laid covetous eyes on it. He could bring up the matter when he saw Louis.

He did not talk of these matters to Geoffrey. He tried to soothe him. He talked a little of their boyhood but the continual conflict between their parents had not made that a very happy time.

On a hot July day Geoffrey died. Looking down at the still face of his brother Henry could not believe that he was gone. He felt tears in his eyes and wished that they had been better friends.

But almost immediately came news that Conan of Brittany, the son of the displaced Duke, was marching towards Nantes.

Henry immediately set about gathering together his forces. He left his army to stand against any invaders and went on to Paris where he was determined to get Louis’s agreement that he should hold Brittany.

Louis received Henry with all the honours possible. His Queen joined with him. Constance was anxious to see the man whom Louis’s first wife had married. She found him bold, a little coarse in some ways, but a man of great strength and she saw at once that he was in complete contrast to Louis.

Unlike Thomas Becket, Henry entered Paris without a great show of magnificence. He had left the best of his army behind to hold Brittany, in any case, and as he was the King of England and Duke of Normandy, ruler over a greater territory than the King of France, he had no need to proclaim what was obvious.

The two men took their measure. It was six years ago that Eleanor had shown her preference by marrying Henry. Louis had recovered from the humiliation now and had a new Queen; as for Henry his passion for Eleanor was fast dying and any cause for resentment against each other seemed to have dwindled away.

They would never be close friends. They were two different types. Louis had arranged special church services which he thought would please his guest. Henry would have preferred to see more of how the people lived, how they reacted to the laws of their land; he would have liked to meet some of the beautiful women of France. But he had come on a mission and it was imperative that he conclude it with satisfaction. The conferences began. Louis would support Henry in Brittany; he would give the baby Marguerite as her dowry the much disputed Vexin, which was on the borders of Normandy and the Ile de France. This was the buffer state between those two and possession of it meant a certain security for Normandy.

It was a very satisfactory meeting and when Henry left Paris he brought with him the baby Marguerite whom he would take to England to be brought up as his daughter.

Even more satisfactory was the fact that when Conan of Brittany saw the forces of the Duke of Normandy and King of England he changed his mind about standing out against him, and he decided that he must try to make peace. Henry shrewdly agreed to do so and even compromised by making Conan Duke of Brittany, providing he recognised himself as a vassal of the Duke of Normandy and King of England. This Conan agreed to; and at the public ceremony swore that he would serve Henry with his life.

While this was happening Henry received two messages from England.

His wife had given birth to another son. She had called him Geoffrey after the King’s dead brother and father.

Henry smiled ruefully. So there would be two Geoffreys in the nursery now. He could picture the elder one being known as Geoffrey the Bastard. That would be as Eleanor wanted it. Was that why she had chosen the same name for her own son?

The other piece of news was that Rosamund had also borne a son. She had called him William.

Henry was pleased. He longed to see his children and most of all he longed to see Rosamund.

Before Henry reached England he received news of another death, which was a little disconcerting. It was not that he cared greatly for the man who had died; but his passing was of some political significance for he was the son of King Stephen. Henry had reason to be grateful to this man, for had he been ambitious he might have laid claim to the throne which as the only surviving son of the late King would have seemed to some a reasonable thing to have done. William however was not ambitious; he had had no desire to build up an army and go to war against Henry Plantagenet. Moreover he was wise enough to realise that the people of England considered Henry the true heir and would have flocked to his support.

William had been very content to stand aside for Henry and become the Count of Boulogne, which title he inherited through his mother and there was no one who could say he had no right to this. Boulogne, however, through its connection with the Crown was a vassal state of England. Henry had been pleased with the state of affairs, for Boulogne under William, who was without ambition, had caused him no anxiety, but when William died, Henry realised that it would be necessary to take immediate action to keep Boulogne as it had been, a vassal of England and Normandy.

He had no desire to make war - which was never wise when the matter could be resolved in any other way. And there was another way. Stephen had also had a daughter, Mary, who early in her life had decided on a religious career and was now the Abbess of the Convent of Romsey.

Henry acted promptly. He commanded her to come to him without delay. The startled Abbess protested to the messenger who arrived at Romsey with the King’s command, but she was told that this was an order which it would be treason to disobey. She had visions of her convent being laid to waste, her nuns dispersed, for the King was ruthless enough to take such action, and as the daughter of the late King she was in a precarious position. She knew that William, her recently dead brother, had decided to get out of England for he had felt that it would be unwise for him to stay there as the only legitimate son of the late King when there was a new King on the throne.

Bewildered, the Abbess travelled to Normandy and there she was met by Henry who told her that he had a bridegroom for her and she was to prepare to marry without delay.

‘My lord,’ she cried aghast, ‘how can I marry? I have taken my religious vows. I am Abbess of Romsey.’

‘You were,’ said the King testily. ‘But you are no longer so.’

‘How can that be when I have taken my vows? None but the Pope would grant my dispensation.’

‘Leave that to me,’ said Henry.

‘I am afraid, my lord …’

‘Afraid,’ thundered Henry. ‘You’re to marry and that is my command.’

‘I do not understand. Who would wish to marry me?’

‘My cousin Matthew wishes to marry you, Madam, because I have said he should. He knows better than to disobey me.’

‘But … for what purpose? I am not of an age …’

‘You are of an age to obey your King. When you marry, Boulogne shall be yours and Matthew will be the new Count of Boulogne.’

Now it was clear. William had died and Henry feared some enemy might take Boulogne. It must be kept in the family.

She said: ‘I must appeal to the Pope.’

Henry narrowed his eyes and the colour flamed into his face.

‘Think not that I lack influence in that direction,’ he said.

He dismissed her and she went immediately to Thomas Becket, who had joined the King’s party.

When she told him what had happened he was horrified. The King, who had known what his attitude would be, had said nothing to him. But Thomas was not afraid of offending the King.

‘The Pope will stand beside you,’ Thomas comforted Mary. ‘You have taken your vows. They cannot be thrust aside as though they had never been taken just to suit the King’s ambitions.’

‘What must I do ?’ asked the bewildered Abbess.

‘You have told the King you will appeal to the Pope. You must do so without delay.’

‘Will you help me, my Lord Chancellor?’

‘I will despatch a message to the Pope without delay,’ said Thomas.

When the King knew what Thomas had done he was furious. He strode into the Chancellor’s apartments, his eyes wild, his face scarlet, his tawny hair on end so that he looked more like a raging lion than ever.

‘So, Master Becket, you have decided to take the crown! It is you who rule England and Normandy then?’

Thomas looked at him calmly.

‘It is this matter of the Abbess which grieves you, my lord.’

‘Grieves me! I tell you I am so wild with fury that I myself would hold the burning iron that shall put out those haughty eyes.’

‘So you have sentenced me without hearing my case.’

‘I am your King, Becket.’

‘I know it well, my lord.’

‘And you fear not to anger me ?’

‘I fear only to do what I know to be wrong.’

‘So you are judging us, are you? You, Thomas Becket, clerk of the counting-house, would judge your King!’

‘It is only God who will do that, my lord.’

‘You and your piety! You make me sick, Thomas. You are a man and posing always as a saint. One of these days I shall catch you out. How I look forward to that! And if you value your life you will withdraw your request to the Pope on account of Stephen’s daughter.’

‘I have sent her case to the Pope with her consent, my lord.’

‘Know this. There is no one who gives consent here but the King.’

‘There is a higher power.’

‘You would serve the Pope then … rather than your King?’

‘I would serve the right, my lord.’

The King’s fury abated a little. It was strange how he found it difficult to keep up a quarrel with Thomas.

‘Don’t be a fool, Thomas. Would you have me lose Boulogne?’

‘If God wills it.’

‘Have done with this talk of God. I have never known Him go into battle with my grandfather or my great-grandfather.’

‘They asked help many a time I doubt not.’

‘His help maybe but they did not sit and wait for Him to make their conquests. If they had, they would have waited a long time. I am not going to lose Boulogne. If I did, what would happen? What if it fell into the hands of some evil lord who knew not how to govern? Nay, Thomas, you’re a chancellor not a priest. Forget your cleric’s robes. I can take Boulogne with the utmost ease through this marriage. It will save war and conflict. And all because a nun is asked to relinquish her vows and take a husband.’

‘It is wrong.’

‘Have done.’

‘Nay, my lord, I cannot.’

‘Send another messenger to the Pope. Tell him that the lady has consented to the marriage. Let it be known that you ask for no barriers to be put in the way of this match.’

‘I cannot do it, my lord.’

The King’s face was suffused with blood. He took a step towards Thomas, his hand raised to strike him. Thomas stood impassive. For a few seconds Henry seemed as though he would fall on the Chancellor and tear him apart or at least call to his guards to arrest the Chancellor. His eyes, wild with rage, looked into Thomas’s cool ones, and suddenly he turned and picking up a stool threw it against the wall.

‘I am defied,’ he cried. ‘Defied by those whom I have befriended. They work against me in secret. By God, I’ll be revenged.’

Thomas said nothing. He stood there, then with a cry of rage the King threw himself on the floor and seizing a handful of rushes gnawed them in his rage.

Thomas went out and left him.

He had seen Henry in such a rage that he could not control his temper on one or two occasions, but that anger had never been directed against him before.

He waited for what would happen next.

There was a message from the Pope. He had received news from both the King and the Chancellor concerning the Abbess of Romsey. Pope Alexander was in a very uneasy position. He had been elected at the conclave a very short time before and there had been certain opposition to his taking the papal crown. As that opposition was backed by the Emperor Barbarossa, he did not feel that the papal crown was very secure.

He dared not offend Henry Plantagenet who was not only King of England but fast becoming the most powerful man in France. The fact that the King’s Chancellor differed from his master and was in the right was a very special reason for giving the King what he wanted, for the fact that one of his servants was against him and he himself was in the wrong would make the King doubly angry if the Pope sided against him. Therefore Alexander granted the dispensation. When he received it the King roared with gratified laughter. The first thing he did was to send for Thomas Becket.

‘Ha!’ he cried, when his Chancellor stood before him. ‘Have you heard from your friend the Pope, Thomas?’

‘No, my lord. Perchance it is early yet.’

‘Not too early for me to have received a reply. He’s a wise fellow, Thomas. Wiser than you, my godly Chancellor. I have the dispensation here.’

Henry was gratified to see Thomas turn a shade paler.

‘It cannot be.’

‘See for yourself.’

‘But …’

Henry gave his Chancellor an affectionate push.

‘How could he do otherwise? His state is not too happy. Why, Thomas, you should study his ways. If you do not, you could mortally offend those who could do you harm. Sometimes it is better to serve them than what you call the right. Oh, you do not believe me? Strange as it may seem I like you for it. But I have the dispensation and our bashful Abbess will soon find herself in the marriage bed and I shall still have control over Boulogne.’

Thomas was silent and the King went on: ‘Come, Thomas, applaud my skill. Was it not a good move, eh?’

Thomas was still silent.

‘And what shall I do with my Chancellor who dared to go against my wishes? I could send him to a dungeon. I could put out his eyes. I fancy that would hurt you most. It does most men. To be shut away from the light of the sun, never to see again the green fields. Ah, Thomas, what a fool you were to offend your King.’

‘You will do with me as you will.’

‘I am a soft man at times. Are you not my friend? I could have had you killed, and looked on and seen it done with pleasure. But methinks had I done so I should never have known a moment’s peace after. It is good to have friends. I know that you are mine and that you do in truth serve only one with greater zeal and that is God or Truth, or Righteousness … call it what you will. I like you, Thomas. Know this. If you are my friend, I am yours.’

Then the King put his arm through that of Thomas Becket and together they went out of the chamber.

The friendship between them was greater than ever.

When Henry returned to England the two were constantly together and it was noted that Henry found the society of his Chancellor more rewarding than that of any other person. The rift between himself and Eleanor had widened. She had never forgiven him for bringing the bastard Geoffrey into the royal nurseries and he taunted her by making much of the boy. He liked to escape to the domestic peace of Woodstock. His love for Rosamund did not diminish. Perhaps this was due to the fact that she made no demands. She was always gentle and loving, always beautiful. They had their little son, too, and she was pregnant once more. She gave to him the cosy domesticity which kings can so rarely enjoy, and he delighted in keeping her existence a secret; and none but her servants knew that he visited her and they realised that it would go ill with them if through them the secret was divulged.

The King was happy. His kingdom was comparatively peaceful. He was watchful, of course, but then he would always have to be that. For a time he could stay peacefully in England, and he could enjoy the company of his best friend, Thomas Becket.

Sometimes he asked himself why he loved this man. There could not have been one more different. Even in appearance they presented a contrast. Tall and elegant Thomas, the stocky, carelessly dressed King. Thomas’s love of fine clothes amused Henry. He teased him about it constantly. Why should he, the all-powerful King who could have chosen the most nobly born in his kingdom to be his companions, care only for the society of this man? Thomas was fifteen years older than he was. An old man! So much that Thomas believed in the King disagreed with; and Thomas would never give way in discussion. The King’s temper could wax hot, but Thomas would remain calm and stick to his point. Henry was amused that in spite of Thomas’s aesthetic appearance and concern with spiritual matters, at heart he loved luxury. There was no doubt that he did. His clothes betrayed him. He could also be merry at times. Henry liked to play practical jokes on his friend and Thomas responded. The King would sometimes howl with laughter at some of these, even those against himself. There was no one at his court who could divert him as Thomas Becket could.

They were together constantly. When the King made his frequent peregrinations about the countryside, his Chancellor rode beside him. Sometimes they went off together incognito and sat in taverns and talked with the people. No one recognised the tall dark man with elegant long white hands and his younger freckle-faced, sturdy companion, whose hands were square, and chapped with the weather. An incongruous pair those who met them might have thought, and few were aware that they were the King of England and his Chancellor.

Henry liked nothing better than to score over his Chancellor. He had never forgotten the affair of the Boulogne marriage.

One winter’s day when he and the Chancellor were riding through London, with the cold east wind howling through the streets, Henry looked slyly at his friend. Thomas hated the cold. He would wear twice as many clothes as other men, and although he ate sparingly his servant had to prepare beef steaks and chicken for him. His blood was thin, said the King; he was not hardy like the sprig from the Plantagenet tree. Thomas’s beautiful white hands were protected by elegant but warm gloves, and even in such a bitter wind which was now buffeting the streets of London the King’s hands were free. Gloves, he always declared, hampered him.

Suddenly the King saw a poor old man coming towards them, shivering, his face blue with cold, as he tried to hold his tattered garments about him.

Henry turned to his Chancellor. ‘Do you see that poor fellow?’ he asked.

‘Poor man,’ said Thomas. ‘He must find this wind trying.’

‘I can see his flesh through the tatters of his clothes. It would be an act of charity, favourable in the sight of God, to give him a warm cloak,’

‘It would,’ agreed Thomas. ‘And you, my lord, who have need to find favour in the sight of Heaven could win Heaven’s approval for such a noble deed.’

‘Come,’ said the King. ‘Dismount.’

They did so as the old man approached.

‘Hey, my good fellow,’ said Henry, ‘do you not find this wind hard to bear?’

The old man nodded. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘I shall die of the cold if it lasts much longer.’

‘You need a good warm cloak,’ said the King. ‘What would you say if you were given one?’

‘You mock me, sir,’ said the old man attempting to pass on, but the King detained him and turning to Thomas he said: ‘I see you long to perform this act of charity. Why, look what a fine cloak you are wearing! It is of rich scarlet cloth and lined with fur. Give it to this poor old man.’

‘My lord,’ said Thomas, turning pale, for the thought of riding through the cold streets without his cloak horrified him, ‘you suffer less from the cold than I do. If you gave him your cloak you would not notice it as I should.’

‘That is true,’ said the King. ‘Therefore it is a more noble act for you to give him your cloak.’ With that he attempted to pull it from Thomas who sought to retain it and in a short time the two of them were fighting together - Thomas to keep his cloak, the King to drag it from him.

Henry was laughing so much that the old man thought they were both mad.

‘Come, you good man,’ said the King. ‘Come, Saint Thomas Becket. This poor man needs a cloak and you have it. Give it to me. You shall. You shall.’

Thomas was no match for the strength of the King and finally Henry had wrested the cloak from him.

‘Take it, my good fellow,’ said Henry to the old man. ‘It will keep you warm many a day and night. Forget not in your prayers the man who gave it to you for though he was not the owner, it is by his good graces that you have it.’

The old man, who could not believe his good fortune and thought that the two noblemen were revellers who might change their minds, wrapped the cloak about him and scuttled off as fast as he could.

Henry’s laughter rang through the streets.

‘Why Thomas, how blue your nose has become. What an icy wind! You should be thankful that I did not command you to give the poor old man your gloves. What a tragedy if those delicate white digits should have become red and chapped like those of your royal master. Praise be to God, Thomas Becket, I have made a charitable man of you.’

Henry thought it a great joke. Thomas riding through the cold streets was less amused.

But the incident was typical of the friendship between them.

Chapter X THE VACANT SEE

For two years Eleanor had been free of child-bearing. She began to feel young again. Little Richard was nearly three years old - the brightest and most handsome of her children. She always thought of him as her special child. Her preference was obvious, also her dislike of the elder Geoffrey. The Princess Marguerite was in England but Louis had not wished his daughter to be brought up by the woman who had once been his wife. He felt it would have made a situation which could have its dangers. It had been agreed therefore that little Marguerite should be placed in the household of a certain Robert of Newburgh who was known as a virtuous man of the highest character.

Eleanor said goodbye to her children and joined Henry in Normandy. She wished to make a journey to Aquitaine. Whenever she appeared in her native land there was rejoicing. No matter what rumours there were concerning her she was always welcome there. Once more she set up her little court and the troubadours came to her; once more they sang of love and it seemed that Eleanor, no longer young, the mother of six living children, was as desirable as ever.

She thought now and then of Louis who had had three daughters only - and two of them by her. Marie and Alix were betrothed by now, Marie to Henry of Champagne and Alix to Theobald of Blois. Did they ever think of their mother? And how envious of her and Henry with their fine sons, Louis must have been when his little Marguerite was born. At least that child had strengthened the alliance between France and England, and the bond would be greater when she was in fact married to young Henry.

As she listened to the singing of her minstrels she ruminated that life had been interesting. Henry had disappointed her, yet oddly enough she still hankered for him. She often wondered what it was about him that attracted her so much. She so elegant; he quite the reverse. Oh, but he was a man; and his power sat naturally on him. That Angevin temper of his amused her, but her own was a match for it.

Now that she had grown accustomed to the fact that he was unfaithful to her now and then, she had enjoyed their encounters, and looked forward to them. Her only reservation was that they could result in more child-bearing. With three healthy sons she had enough, she reckoned. But she was still young enough to bear more.

She was a little jealous of the King’s Chancellor for Henry seemed to prefer his company to that of anyone else - even women’s. Becket was clever, she conceded that; and he was a good servant, so perhaps she was wrong to resent Henry’s devotion to him. A king could not have too many good servants.

She was amused to hear that Louis’s wife was pregnant once more. Good for Louis! she thought mockingly. At least he had managed to get her with child twice. She wondered if he was still rather reluctant and preferred to listen to church music instead of the music of love. Not for one moment had she regretted her escape from him.

The life of repose was not for her and whenever she was in Aquitaine she began to think of Toulouse, which had always irritated her because she believed that it should have belonged to her. She had in the past claimed that it came to her through her grandmother Philippa, and she was always hoping that she and Henry would win it back. At this time it was in the possession of Raymond the fifth Count who was a weakling, yet nothing much could be done about it because he had, very shrewdly, married the sister of the King of France.

Oh these marriages! mused Eleanor. How necessary a part of statescraft they were.

Henry came to her when she sat in the gardens with her minstrels. He clapped his hands impatiently implying that he wished them to depart. No one ignored such a signal. The King’s temper was well known and something to avoid.

Henry was clearly disturbed. He sprawled down beside Eleanor and said: ‘I have news. The Queen of France was brought to bed …’

‘A son,’ said Eleanor.

‘Nay, a daughter.’

Eleanor burst out laughing but the King said in a hushed voice: ‘The Queen of France died giving birth to the child.’

They were both silent, thinking of what this would mean. Another daughter for Louis! That was his fourth. Was it that he could not get sons? Eleanor could think complacently of her three healthy boys in the nursery. Poor Louis! What would he do now? He would have to marry again in due course.

The same thought was in Henry’s mind.

‘He’ll wait a while,’ he said, ‘and then he’ll marry. The marriage of the King of France is of the utmost importance to me.’

Henry was casting round in his mind for a wife for the King of France who would be suitable in the eyes of the King of England.

To the astonishment of all, only one month after the death of Queen Constance, Louis married Adela of Blois.

Henry and Eleanor were blank with amazement which quickly turned to apprehension.

‘So,’ cried Henry, ‘he marries Adela of Blois in most indecent haste and her brother Theobald is betrothed to Louis’s daughter. This makes a very strong alliance between the Count of Blois and the King of France.’

‘Too strong,’ said Eleanor.

‘I like it not,’ grumbled Henry. ‘Forget not that the last King of England came from the house of Blois. I like not to see that house too powerful.’

‘You are thinking that they might bring out a claim to the throne of England?’

‘And if they did,’ replied Henry, ‘would Louis withhold his support from a house with which he had such a strong alliance?’

‘It is a pity that Henry and Marguerite are too young to marry. Then with his own daughter married to the heir of England, Louis could do nothing but support you.’

‘Why should they be too young to marry?’

‘Henry is six years old. Marguerite not yet three.’

‘Her marriage portion is the Vexin,’ Henry reminded his wife. ‘If the Vexin were in my control Normandy is safe and that would give me an opportunity to turn my attention in other directions.’

‘But such children!’

‘Why not! We shall not put them to bed. But there could be a ceremony. Louis cannot object. He has agreed to the match. I will get them married and with the marriage, the Vexin. Every Duke of Normandy has known the importance of that territory.’

‘You’d have to get a dispensation from the Pope.’

‘I got one before for our Abbess’s marriage, remember. Alexander is very insecure. If I promised him my support for the dispensation do you doubt it would be mine?’

‘You are a clever man, Henry.’

‘My dear wife, I should not long be King of England and Duke of Normandy if I were not!’

She could not help but admire the manner in which he got his will.

Marguerite and Henry were married. It was a quiet ceremony but it took place in the presence of two cardinals, and since it was truly a marriage the dowry could not be withheld. The Vexin was now under Henry’s rule and he felt a good deal more easy in his mind regarding the marriage of the King of France with Adela of Blois.

Urged by Eleanor Henry decided that he was in a position to launch an attack on Toulouse and bring it where Eleanor had long decided it should be - allied with Aquitaine, in the possession of that province’s Duke and Duchess.

He had the Vexin to safeguard Normandy; England was well governed by his justiciary the Earl of Leicester, and he sent Chancellor Becket to England to raise a company of knights and bring them into France. He was sure that little effort would be necessary to subdue Raymond of Toulouse. Louis hated war; he would stand aside and all Henry would have to do was take a castle or two to assure Raymond of his strength.

Henry had underestimated Louis and it was an unpleasant surprise to learn that the King of France refused to remain aloof. He had a family tie with Raymond who had married his sister; moreover the Count of Toulouse was one of his vassals. It was a fact that Henry Plantagenet was becoming too overbearing - and in consequence it seemed too powerful. Louis was aware that a stop would have to be made to such headlong progress and declared that he would go to the help of his brother-in-law.

Henry was nonplussed. He had no desire to go to war against the King of France; he could see a major engagement developing; it would never do for him to defeat the King of France. Nor would it do for the King of France to defeat him. He could not take over France. There would be endless trouble if he did. He would be fighting in France for the rest of his life.

But what could he do? He had declared war on Raymond of Toulouse. Becket had arrived with his array of knights and the King of Scotland had offered to come to his aid.

Uncertainly he marched to Toulouse and when the walls of the city were in sight news was brought to him that Louis himself was within.

The King called a halt to his armies. He sent for his Chancellor.

‘This is a sorry state of affairs, Becket,’ he said.

‘Why so, my lord? It was your wish to make war on Toulouse.’

‘I know, I know. But the King of France is within that city.’

‘By being there he declares himself to be an enemy of yours.’

‘What if I were to kill the King of France ?’

‘I was thinking, my lord, what if he were to kill you?’

‘Bah! He never would. He’s no soldier. He’ll have no stomach for the fight.’

‘Stomach enough to place himself at the head of his armies and join Raymond of Toulouse against you.’

‘I would I had never begun this. Help me out of it, Thomas. Tell me what I can do now.’

‘The Duke of Normandy is the vassal of the King of France.’

‘Tell me not what I know already.’

‘You have sworn to serve him and accept him as your liege lord. How could you then take up arms against him?’

‘I can and would if so be I had a mind.’

‘Yet you have no heart for this because you ask yourself is it a just fight? My lord, in England many of your subjects have sworn allegiance to you. If you break your word to the suzerain of the Duke of Normandy, others might see it as a precedent and act accordingly towards the King of England. Might not those who have sworn allegiance to you break their vows in similar fashion?’

‘I see what you mean, Thomas.’

‘We can abandon this project. We can walk away from the walls of Toulouse.’

‘And what will be said of that?’

‘That the King of England is an honourable man. Since the King of France takes sides with Raymond of Toulouse, and as Duke of Normandy Henry Plantagenet has sworn allegiance to him, he abandons what would appear to be certain victory for the sake of his honour.’

Henry looked at his Chancellor, narrowed his eyes and burst into his loud laughter.

‘You have it, Thomas. You have it, friend. Did I not always know that you would provide me with the right and righteous answer.’

There was a certain amount of puzzlement regarding the King’s action. Why had he gathered together an army only to take it to the walls of Toulouse, and then lead it away?

Was Henry Plantagenet afraid of the combined forces of Toulouse and France? It was strange, for the advantage was all his.

Speculation as to his inability to succeed was dispersed almost immediately for Louis’s brother Robert, hungry for power, had seized the opportunity to attack Normandy.

Henry had no scruples here. He went straight into the fight and so trounced Robert that he was soon suing for peace.

Thus Henry’s reputation as a man of honour was enhanced with no loss to that as a commander of armies.

It had not been such an unprofitable affair after all. Only Eleanor was frustrated and angry. She had been furious to discover that she was once more pregnant and secretly upbraided herself for allowing this to happen, but she concentrated her reproaches on Henry’s failure to take Toulouse.

‘It is mine,’ she declared. ‘It came to me with my grandfather. You who took England, who took Normandy, could have taken Toulouse.’

Henry shrugged his shoulders. ‘I will take what I want and when I want it,’ he told her.

‘But not Toulouse! You are afraid of the King of France. Afraid of my meek monk Louis!’

‘Rant all you wish,’ said the King. ‘I shall heed you not.’

‘Mayhap,’ retaliated Eleanor, ‘one of these days my sons will be old enough to fight for their mother.’

‘A fine thing to say when you may well be carrying one of them now.’

‘Do not goad me too far, Henry,’ retorted Eleanor, ‘or you will regret it.’

‘You may apply the same to me,’ he retorted.

Her frustration was intolerable. It was unfair that it should always be the woman’s lot to bear the children.

This shall be the last, she promised herself. But had she not said that when Geoffrey was born?

In due course she gave birth to her child in the town of Domfront.

She named her Eleanor after herself.

Archbishop Theobald was writing frequently to Thomas.

‘You are still Archdeacon of Canterbury yet we never see you here. What of the affairs of the Church? Do you forget them in your secular duties?’

Thomas told the King of the Archbishop’s requests for his return.

‘Tell the old man I need you with me,’ replied the King.

‘I should doubtless resign my post of Archdeacon.’

‘Nay. ‘Tis better for you to remain in the Church.’

‘It is long since I was in Canterbury. I should return, for my old friend and patron grows old. In his last letter he calls himself my spiritual father and prophesies that he has not long for this world. He wishes me to go back to Canterbury before he dies.’

‘You cannot go, Thomas. I need you here. Write to the Archbishop and tell him your King needs his Chancellor. Who brought your name before me when I needed a Chancellor? Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury. So he cannot complain now that I took the man he chose for me, and now I expect him to hold his post.’

So Thomas wrote to Theobald and explained to him that he would return as soon as he could leave the King.

Henry smiled secretly. He was determined that Thomas should not have that opportunity. In fact he was wondering how he could bind Thomas more closely to him, for he was enjoying his company more and more. He looked for honours to heap upon him and he decided that he would put his son Henry, the young bridegroom, into his charge.

Already several noblemen had sent their sons into the household of Thomas Becket, where the boys would learn not only book lore but how to behave in a chivalrous and knightly manner. They would learn elegance and courtliness with such a man as Thomas Becket.

‘I shall give my boy Henry into your keeping,’ the King told Thomas. ‘You will bring him up to be honourable, righteous, and at the same time to behave like a king. You will teach him to love the good things of life and at the same time keep his peace with God. A rare combination, my friend. Sometimes methinks only you know the secret.’

‘I shall do all in my power to bring up your son as a good Christian prince,’ replied Becket.

‘Take him to England. Let it be arranged that all the barons and bishops do homage to him. Let England recognise him as their future king.’

Before Thomas reached England Theobald was dead and Thomas regretted that he had not disobeyed the King’s orders and gone back to say a last farewell to his old friend.

In fairness to himself he could suppress his conscience. He was the King’s Chancellor and in this important post had his duties to perform. Theobald would have understood that. Thomas wondered whether at the end Theobald had regretted getting the Chancellorship for him.

He now devoted himself to the task of carrying out the King’s orders regarding young Henry. The boy soon became devoted to him and the task was pleasant, but it was not long before there came a message from the King.

Thomas was to join him in Normandy.

The See of Canterbury had been vacant for some months, and the country was without its chief archbishop. Henry was in no great hurry to fill the post for while it was vacant the vast revenues fell into his coffers.

The winter had been bad and Thomas suffered great discomfort from the cold, and as a result became ill and was forced to rest at St Gervase in Rouen while the royal party went on to Falaise.

One day when he was well enough to sit up he wrapped himself in a loose robe and was playing a game of chess with one of his knights when the Prior of Leicester called to see him.

The Prior expressed astonishment to see him in such unclerical garb. ‘Why, my lord,’ he said, ‘you look more like a falconer than an archdeacon. Yet churchman you are. Your titles even now are formidable. Archdeacon of Canterbury, Dean of Hastings, Provost of Beverley and Canon of Rouen. Nor is that all.’

‘What mean you by “nor is that all”?’ asked Thomas.

‘I speak only of the rumours and what is said to be in the King’s mind concerning the Archbishopric of Canterbury.’

‘And what is this then?’

‘That he has it in his mind to make you his Archbishop.’

Thomas rose unsteadily to his feet.

‘Nay, you have heard amiss.’

‘This is what is said in court circles. Those who are intimate with the King are saying that he has mentioned your name in this connection.’

‘It must not be. I know three priests in England whom I would rather see promoted to the Archbishopric than myself.’

‘Are you not an ambitious man then, Chancellor?’

‘My ambition is to do my duty.’

‘Then could you not please God doubly as head of his Church in England?’

‘The King has been my good friend. I know him intimately. I know it would not be good for me to be his Archbishop. I am his Chancellor. As such I can serve him well. It would please me to go on as I am.’

‘The King holds you in such esteem that he would wish to see you head of the Church.’

‘If I became Archbishop of Canterbury I should not hold his favour.’

‘Why should you not?’

‘Because the King likes not those who do not agree with him.’

‘He likes his Chancellor.’

‘We can disagree in secular matters yes, and do. And in these I should be forced to give way to the King. If I were Archbishop I might be called upon to set aside my duty to God in order to please the King.’

‘You’re a strange man, Thomas Becket.’

‘I know myself,’ answered Thomas, ‘and I know the King. I shall decline his offer of the Archbishopric.’

It was difficult to continue with that game of chess. Uneasy thoughts had settled in Thomas’s mind and come to stay.

The King sent for him at his castle of Falaise.

‘Hey, Thomas,’ he cried. I trust I see you well. Why, you look thin and wan, man. Be of good cheer. Soon we shall set sail for England. I’ll warrant our green fields will make you well again.’

The King’s eyes were glazed with sentiment. He was thinking of Rosamund in her bower waiting to see him. It would in truth be good to be home again.

He turned to Thomas and there was deep affection in his eyes.

‘I wanted to talk with you, Thomas, about a certain matter. It’s months since old Theobald died.’

‘Almost a year,’ said Thomas.

‘And the See of Canterbury has been vacant all this time. Not that I will complain about that. But it seems we must have an Archbishop there and my thoughts have alighted on the man best suited to fill the part.’

‘I know of several priests who would fit the role admirably, my lord.’

‘I know of only one and that makes the selection easy.’ Henry took a step towards Thomas and laid his hands on his shoulders. ‘My good friend, it gives me pleasure to reward you for all your services to me. I have decided that you shall be my Archbishop of Canterbury.’

‘You are gracious, Sire, but I refuse the honour. It is not for me.’

‘Not for you! What in God’s name do you mean? Not for you! It is for you. I say it’s for you.’

‘My lord, it would not be wise.’

‘What’s this? You and I together. Do we not rule this land, eh? Do I not listen to you and take your advice?’

‘When it pleases you to do so,’ said Thomas.

The King laughed aloud and slapped Thomas on the shoulder.

‘True enough, my good friend. The Church has ever been a thorn in the side of our kings. I have often thought to myself, I will never suffer that thorn. And how shall I avoid it? By putting my good friend Thomas at the head of the Church. Have we not been good friends through your Chancellorship?’

‘The best,’ said Thomas.

‘I like our friendship, Thomas. That’s why I like you with me. I like to go hawking with you. I like to sup at your table. You are as my brother. There, is that not an honour to you? The grandson of great Henry and the great-grandson of greater William chooses you, the son of a merchant, as the best friend he ever had.’

‘Such condescension is flattering,’ said Thomas. ‘I, as a humble merchant’s son, am aware of the honour done to me. I value that friendship which you are gracious enough to acknowledge, and it is because I cannot bear to spoil it that I decline the post you offer me.’

The King’s temper was beginning to rise.

‘If my lord will excuse me …’ began Thomas.

‘Nay,’ roared the King. ‘I will do no such thing. You will stay here and you will go on your knees and thank me for my munificence in offering you this great post which is what you desired more than anything else, the peak of your ambition, the post on which you set your heart ever since you entered the Church.’

‘May I speak?’

‘You may.’

‘If I take this post it could impair our friendship.’

‘How so?’

‘If we did not agree …’

‘Are we not now often in disagreement?’

‘It is so. But that is in matters of government in which I must perforce give way to you. You are my King and I am your servant. If I became Archbishop of Canterbury there is one whom I must serve before you and that is God.’

‘A plague on such talk! My ancestors have quarrelled constantly with the Church. There has ever been conflict between them. It is to avoid this that I wish you to be my Archbishop. You and I will have our disagreements but should we ever quarrel seriously?’

‘I must repeat that my first allegiance would have to be to God. You are my King and my friend. I would have it remain as it stands now. I beg of you, my lord, to accept my decision.’

The King stared at Thomas. ‘I could force you …’ he began.

‘Nay, that is one thing you could not do,’ contradicted Thomas.

‘Then I must perforce persuade you. Now, your looks do not please me. I like not to see my Chancellor so wan. You shall not travel until you are completely recovered. I must go to England and you shall follow me when you are well.’

‘You are gracious to me, my lord,’ said Thomas with some emotion.

‘Sometimes I wonder at myself,’ answered the King. ‘I have a fondness for you, and I promise you it will not lessen, even when you are my Archbishop.’

Henry went back to England where there were certain matters to occupy him. Leicester and Richard de Luci were good fellows, and it was a fine thing to have such loyal servants; but neither of them pleased him as Thomas did. He missed his company.

When he thought of him he began to laugh. He could never fully understand Thomas. That love of silken garments, those lily-white hands! Whatever he said, Thomas loved luxury. Thomas was a clever fellow, none more clever. Was he capable of putting on a front for everyone to see … even his King? Was that pious exterior hiding a sensual man? He couldn’t hide that love for the good things of life. His household articles were of the finest. He lived more like a king than the King himself.

How he would love to discover Thomas in some intrigue! Nothing would delight him more. How amusing to discover him … say in bed with a woman. How they would laugh together.

Then you and I, Thomas, would go adventuring together, he thought. I can imagine no greater delight.

‘My first allegiance is to God.’ That irked. Thomas, you are human like the rest of us. You want old Theobald’s post. You must. And when you have it, you and I will show the Pope of Rome that England can do without the Church, that the King of England is more powerful than any Pope, for all that he’s a soldier and a lecher.

If only he could discover Thomas in some awkward situation.

He had left Eleanor at Westminster and travelled to Stafford on one of his frequent journeys that his people might see that he cared for their well-being and at the same time made sure of their good conduct. The country was becoming law-abiding again. The roads were safe as they had been in the days of his grandfather. He had abolished the brigandry of the road when no traveller had been safe. These robbers had no wish to lose hands, feet, ears, nose or eyes for the sake of someone’s purse; and the King’s judgement was relentless. No one could be sure when he would put in an appearance, so there must consequently be no straying from the strict laws which he had laid down.

Some years before the King had enjoyed his visits to Stafford for living there was a young woman of whom he had been quite enamoured. Her name was Avice and she had borne him two sons. She no longer appealed to him. Rosamund had filled his thoughts since he had first discovered her and he had found that no woman satisfied him as she did, so that whenever he had the time to dally it was to Woodstock he went.

Avice might no longer be the slender young girl who had caught his fancy but she was still a very attractive woman - some seemed to think more so in her ripeness than she had been when very young.

The King visited her now and then for old time’s sake and had always retained an affection for her.

Now at Stafford he sent for her. She was delighted to come, always hoping that she could regain her old position with him.

He decided to spend the night with her, and when they were together an idea came to him. It so amused him that he could not stop himself laughing.

‘Now, Avice,’ he said, ‘I want you to do something for me.’

‘Anything I can do for my lord shall be done,’ she assured him.

‘I want you to see if you can lure my Chancellor into bed with you.’

‘My lord!’ Avice was a little hurt. What greater proof could there be of a lover’s indifference than when he suggested she should be turned over to someone else. ‘You cannot mean Thomas Becket?’

‘None other.’

‘But the man is a cleric is he not?’

‘My dear Avice, clerics have been known to enjoy a woman now and then.’

‘Not this man, surely.’

‘So he would have us believe.’

‘You think he is deceiving you?’

‘I don’t know. But I should like to find out. Oh, if I could surprise him in bed with you, Avice, I would reward you well.’

‘I would not ask for rewards, my lord, to serve you.’

‘Nay, you are a good wench and pleasant times we have had together - and shall have more I doubt not.’

‘Yet you would wish me to … to entertain this man?’

‘I would wish you to prove to me that he is not the virtuous fellow he pretends to be. You are a beautiful woman, Avice. Do this for me and I shall not forget it.’

‘What would you have me do ?’

‘He will be coming to Stafford to join the court. I will send for him. When he arrives I wish you to show friendship to him. Ask him to come and see you. Feign religion if you wish. Visit him at his lodging. My dear Avice, you will know how to go on from there.’

‘And then?’

‘He will be staying in the house of a clerk called Vivien. He has stayed there before. I will speak to Vivien and he will play his part. I want him to surprise you in bed with Becket. Then he will be so over-wrought, knowing you have been my mistress, that he will come at once to me and tell me what has happened. It is a simple enough plot.’

‘I doubt from what I know of Thomas Becket that it will succeed.’

‘That is what everyone would say. But you don’t know Thomas. I know the man well. I would know him better. You will do this for me, my dear Avice. I shall regard it as a great favour to me.’

‘I would rather entertain you, my lord.’

‘So you shall. Do this and I will never forget you.’

He studied her appraisingly. She was a very beautiful woman, voluptuous, irresistible.

We shall see, friend Thomas, he thought.

Thomas arrived in Stafford and went straight to the house of Vivien where he had stayed many times before. He was warmly welcomed by the family and taken to his chamber.

He was tired and still feeling weak; moreover he was beset by anxieties. The King would not easily let him refuse the post of Archbishop and Thomas was beginning to think that he would have no alternative but to take it.

It will be the end, he thought. The King and I will be enemies. He will never fall into step and walk beside the Church. There will always be differences of opinion, always conflict. And yet the King was insisting. Although he did not say outright: ‘I command you to take this post,’ it was in his mind.

Vivien came to his chamber to say that a message had arrived for him. It was from Mistress Avice of whom he may have heard.

Thomas wrinkled his brow. ‘I think I have heard the King speak of a lady of that name.’

‘Very likely,’ said Vivien, ‘she was at one time the King’s very good friend.’

‘What can she want of me?’

‘She is asking for an audience.’

‘She may come here.’

She came immediately. She was a very beautiful woman. Thomas could understand the attraction she had once had for the King.

She told him that she had sinned greatly during her life and was now eager to repent.

‘Men go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land to take part in crusades. What can a woman do?’

‘You could go into a convent.’

‘I fear that would be too easy a way out. You must forgive me for taking up your time but something told me that only a man such as you could give me the advice I need. Will you promise me to think of the matter?’

‘The answer is in yourself,’ said Thomas. ‘Only you can save your soul.’

‘Yet such a man as yourself can best advise me. You are a man of God and yet you live at court. You share much of the King’s life. You yourself must have had temptations.’

‘We have all had temptations,’ answered Thomas. ‘We overcome them through prayer. Go away, pray and ask God’s help and the answer will come to you.’

‘Thank you. You have eased my mind considerably. May I come and see you again?’

Thomas said she might and that he would mention her in his prayers.

‘That gives me great comfort. How much more readily will your prayers be listened to.’

When she had gone Thomas forgot her. He had matters of State to ponder on and he could not help but return to the constant question of the Archbishopric of Canterbury.

The next day Avice came again. She found it difficult to pray, she said. Would Thomas teach her?

Thomas, who never turned a supplicant away, said he would pray with her and again advised her to sell her worldly goods and go into a convent.

She used all her wiles, she admitted that she had been the mistress of the King, a fact which aroused Thomas’s interest. She came close to him as she talked and the musk smell with which she scented her clothes was pleasant to him. She was a very attractive woman and cleverly skilled in all the arts of seduction. How easily Henry would have succumbed.

He sighed, thinking of the weaknesses of the King, and marvelled that a man so strong, so able a ruler, so determined on getting his will could yet so easily be tempted.

When Avice left Vivien spoke to her. She was smiling as though well pleased with herself.

She must be coming this night, thought the clerk, for the court was moving on the next day and tonight was the only time it could be.

Thomas returned to his chamber and all was quiet.

It was midnight when the King arrived. He was wrapped in a concealing cloak so that none would guess his identity.

Vivien came to the door holding high a horn lantern. The King stepped into the house.

‘The Chancellor is here?’ he asked.

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Vivien. ‘In his bedchamber. I’ll warrant he is not alone.’

‘Go to his room,’ said the King. ‘Do not knock on the door. Throw it open and see what you find.’

Vivien took the horn lantern and mounted the stairs silently. Gently he opened the door of Thomas’s bedchamber. He shone the light of the horn lantern round the room.

The bed was empty!

Vivien felt exultant. The plot had worked. If Thomas’s bed was empty then he must be sleeping elsewhere and where? In Avice’s bed.

How delighted the King would be.

Henry was standing behind him.

‘What?’ he whispered.

‘He is not here, my lord. He is sleeping elsewhere this night.’

‘I know where,’ cried the King and then he stopped short. For kneeling at the bed in a deep sleep, his face pale and drawn in the light from the horn lantern, was Thomas.

The King stared at him for some moments and a great tenderness came over his face.

He put his finger to his lips and with a nod of his head ordered Vivien to proceed downstairs.

‘He has fallen asleep over his prayers,’ he said. ‘Why did I ever think I could catch a man like Thomas? He can never be caught for this simple reason, that he would never fall into temptation.’

Richard de Luci with the Bishops of Exeter and Chichester called on Thomas.

They talked to him long and earnestly.

They believed that his duty lay clearly before him. He had the King’s confidence. Henry would listen to him as to no other man. The Church needed him. The See of Canterbury had remained vacant too long. Clearly it was the duty of Thomas Becket to take the robes of office.

The King had determined that he should; and now the members of the clergy were in agreement with the King.

Thomas knew that the easy happy friendship with the King must decline. His mode of life must change. Yet the challenge had come and he knew he must take it.

Thomas gave his promise that he would accept the King’s offer and become the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Chapter XI THE RISING STORM

In his castle of Falaise the King talked with his wife and mother and the subject of their discourse was the new Archbishop of Canterbury.

Matilda, now showing her age but as fiery as ever, was repeating what she had said many times before which was to the effect that her son had made a great mistake when he had chosen Thomas Becket.

Eleanor shrugged her shoulders. Becket did not greatly interest her but she did deplore Henry’s obsession with the man which was now spreading to their son Henry. When she had last met the child he had shown his adoration for the Archbishop and seemed to look up to him as a divine being. It was all very tiresome, but better, she thought, that the King should spend his time with a man like Becket than to be sporting with all kinds of women.

‘Nay, my lady,’ he replied to his mother. ‘I could not have made a better choice. Becket and I understand each other. He has been a good Chancellor and when the Chancellor and the Archbishop of Canterbury are one and the same you will see how easy it is for us to carry out our plans.’

‘I shall pray that it is so,’ said Matilda. ‘But there has always been trouble between the Kings and the Church. The Church wants to take power from the State and it is for the Kings to see that they do not. In appointing this man as head of your Church you have put unlimited power into his hands.’

‘Becket wielded great power as Chancellor,’ said the King. ‘I found him easy to handle then.’

‘The King and his Chancellor, were inseparable,’ said Eleanor.

‘I could never understand this friendship with such a man,’ put in Matilda. ‘A merchant’s son! It puzzles me.’

‘Believe me,’ said Henry, ‘there is no man in England more cultured.’

‘It is impossible,’ snapped Matilda. ‘You deceive yourself.’

‘I do not. He is a man of great learning, and has a natural nobility.’

‘The King loves him as though he were a woman,’ put in Eleanor scornfully.

Henry threw a venomous glance in her direction. Why did she take sides with his mother against him? Ever since he had put young Geoffrey in the nursery she had manifested this dislike of him.

‘I esteem him as a friend,’ corrected Henry angrily. ‘There was never any other of my servants who could amuse me as that man did.’

‘And not content with making him your Chancellor you must give him the chief archbishopric in the kingdom as well.’

‘My mother, my wife! This is politics. This is statecraft. My Chancellor is my Archbishop. My Chancellor must be loyal to the State and since my Archbishop is also my Chancellor how can he go against that which is beneficial to the State?’

‘So this is your idea of bringing the Church into submission to the State,’ said Matilda. ‘I hope it works.’

‘Fear not, Mother. It will work.’

‘Your Archbishop is indeed a worldly man.’ Eleanor turned to Matilda. ‘You will know that this man lives in unsurpassed splendour. He maintains seven hundred knights and the trappings of his horses are covered in gold and silver. I heard that he receives the highest in the land.’

‘And as Chancellor so he should,’ retorted the King.

‘An upstart,’ said Matilda. ‘Having been born humble he must continually let people know how noble he has become.’

‘You, my dear Mother, were born royal but I believe you never allowed any to forget your nobility.’

‘Oh, but this fellow was quite ostentatious,’ said Eleanor. ‘I have heard it said that he lived more splendidly than you ever did.’

Henry laughed indulgently. ‘He has a taste for such luxury. As you say he was not born to it but acquired it. Therefore he prized it.’

‘He has bewitched you,’ Eleanor told him.

He gave her a glance of distaste. Why did she bait him? She was jealous he knew. So she still had some feeling for him. She had disliked his friendship with Becket almost as much as she hated his love affairs.

She went on to discuss the extravagances of Becket.

‘At his banquets there must be every rarity. I heard that he paid seventy-five pounds for a dish of eels.’

‘One hears this gossip,’ said the King. ‘If Thomas was extravagant it was to do me honour. He is my Chancellor and I remember when he went to France in great state it was said that I must indeed be a wealthy man since my Chancellor travelled as he did.’

‘Clever he may be,’ said Matilda, ‘but I warn you. Make sure he is not too clever.’

‘You will see what a brilliant move this is on my part. This will be an end to the strife between Church and State.’

It was only a day or so after that conversation that Henry fell into one of the greatest rages that ever had overtaken him.

A messenger had arrived from Canterbury, bringing with him the Great Seal of Office. Henry looked at it in dismay for he began to understand what it meant. There was a letter from Thomas and as the King read it a mist swam before his eyes.

‘By God’s eyes, Thomas,’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘I could kill you for this.’

Thomas had written that he must resign his Chancellorship for he could not reconcile his two posts. The Archbishop must be quite apart from the Chancellor. Thomas had a new master. The Church.

Henry’s rage almost choked him. This was the very thing his mother had prophesied. This was the implication behind Eleanor’s sneers. He had believed in Thomas’s love for him; he had thought their friendship more important than anything else. So it had seemed to him. But not to Thomas.

He remembered Thomas’s words. It would be the end of their friendship.

Only if the Chancellor and the Archbishop were as one could Henry’s battle with the Church be won. If Thomas was going to set himself up on one side while he was on the other there would be conflict between them.

His grandfather had fought with the Church. Was he to do the same … with Thomas?

And he had thought himself so clever. He was going to avoid that. He was going to put his friend into the Church so that the Church would be subservient to the State - so that the King would rule and none gainsay him. Henry Plantagenet had planned to have no Pope over him.

And this man … who called himself his friend, to whom he had given so much … had betrayed him. He had accepted the Archbishopric and resigned from the Chancellorship.

‘By God, Thomas,’ he said, ‘if you wish there to be war between us, then war there shall be. And I shall be the victor. Make no mistake about that.’

Then the violence of his rage overcame him. He beat his fist against the wall and it was Thomas’s face he saw there. He kicked the stool around the chamber and it was Thomas he kicked.

None dared approach him until his rage abated. They all knew how violent the King’s temper could be.

Eleanor and Henry took their farewell of Matilda and travelled to Barfleur. The King had declared he would spend Christmas at Westminster.

His anger against Thomas had had time to cool. He reasoned with himself. Thomas had reluctantly taken the Archbishopric and he had in some measure forced it upon him. Therefore he must not complain if Thomas resigned the Chancellorship. It was disappointing but he might have known that Thomas would do exactly as he had done. He was after all a cleric.

There will be battles between us, thought Henry. Well, there have always been battles of a kind. It will be stimulating, amusing. I long to see Thomas again.

Eleanor said: ‘I’ll dare swear your Archbishop is trembling in his shoes as he awaits your arrival.’

‘That is something Thomas would never do.’

‘If he has heard what a mighty rage you were in when you heard he had resigned the Chancellorship, he will surely not expect you to greet him lovingly.’

‘He is a man of great integrity. He would always do what he believed to be right.’

‘So he is forgiven? How you love that man! I’ll warrant you can scarcely wait to enjoy his sparkling discourse. And only a short while ago you were cursing him. What a fickle man you are, Henry!’

‘Nay,’ answered Henry, ‘rather say I am constant, although I may be enraged for a time that passes.’

‘Your servants know it. All they must do is anger you, keep out of your way and then return to be forgiven.’

‘You know that is not true,’ he said and closed the conversation.

Do not think, she mused, that I may be thrust aside for a while and then taken back. You may be in a position to subjugate others but not Eleanor of Aquitaine. I shall never forget that you placed your bastard into my nurseries to be brought up with my sons. Richard was now six. She had watched his manner with his father. He was all for his mother, and would be more so. And Richard was the most beautiful and most promising of their children. Henry the eldest had already gone to Becket and clearly doted on the man. Little Geoffrey was too young to show a preference. Henry could have the adulation of his little bastard and be content with that, but when the time came it was his legitimate children who would inherit their parents’ possessions. Richard should be Duke of Aquitaine; on that she had decided. He could already sing charmingly and loved to play the lute.

At Barfleur they waited for the wind to abate. It would be folly to set to sea in such weather. But day after day it raged and it became apparent that they could not be in Westminster for Christmas.

There were festivities at Cherbourg, but it was not the same. Eleanor would have liked to be with her children on Christmas Day. She had planned an entertainment for them with minstrels and dancers and she knew that young Richard would have enjoyed that and shone too above the rest of them. He would have made bastard Geoffrey seem an oaf.

It was not until nearing the end of January that they set sail.

When they reached Southampton Thomas Becket and their son Henry were waiting there to greet them. Henry, eight years old, had grown since they last saw him. He knelt before them and his father laid his hand on his head. He was pleased with his son’s progress. There was nothing gauche about the boy. That was due to Thomas.

And Thomas? He and the King looked at each other steadily. Thomas was clearly uncertain what to expect. Then the King burst out laughing.

‘Well, my Chancellor that was and my Archbishop that is, how fare you?’

And all was well between them.

On the journey to London the King rode side by side with his Archbishop and every now and then the King’s laughter rang out. There was a contented gleam in his eyes. There was no one who could amuse him like Thomas.

As they neared the end of the ride he referred to his anger when he had received the news of Thomas’s resignation.

‘I guessed it would be so,’ said Thomas.

‘Yet you dared provoke it.’

‘It was inevitable. I knew I could not remain Chancellor. That was why I did not wish to become Archbishop in the first place. I was certain that it would impair our friendship.’

‘There will be battles between us, Thomas. But by God’s eyes, I’d rather have battles with you than docility from any other man.’

‘Nay,’ answered Thomas, ‘harmony is best.’

‘See,’ retorted the King. ‘You disagree with me already.’

Thomas smiled ruefully as he gazed at the darkening sky over Westminster.

Summer had come. The King had ridden to Woodstock and there had found many an opportunity to slip away to Rosamund. She was delighted to have him with her after his long absence abroad. The children had grown and danced round him to see what gifts he had brought them while Rosamund reproved them gently. What did gifts matter, she demanded, when they had their dear father with them?

‘I would that I could come to you more often, Rosamund,’ he told her. ‘Here I find a peace which elsewhere is denied me.’

The fact that he kept his liaison with her a secret apart from one or two who must inevitably know of it - gave it a touch of romance which he had never known with any of his other mistresses.

‘Has anyone come to the house?’ he always asked her.

One or two people had, she told him. They had wandered through the maze of trees and by chance arrived there. They had been strangers who had not associated her with the King.

He was always a little uneasy that Eleanor might discover Rosamund’s bower. And if she did? Then perforce she must suffer it. But he feared her in a way. She was no ordinary woman. There was a power about her, he had to admit. She still fascinated him as she had in the beginning of their relationship and it was because of Eleanor that he felt a need to keep Rosamund’s existence a secret.

He could not stay long or he would be missed and speculation would be rife.

There was to be a meeting of the Great Council and he had summoned this to Woodstock in order that he might enjoy a brief respite with Rosamund. Now he reluctantly said farewell to her and went back to take part in it.

Here a difference arose between the King and Thomas. It was not a matter of great moment, but it was a sign of what was to come, like the rumble of distant thunder of an approaching storm.

The problem of raising taxes was always a pressing one. Henry was not extravagant in his personal life; but he needed a constant supply of money to keep his armies in readiness, that he might go into action if need be at home in England and most certainly he would have at some time to maintain his overseas possessions.

It was the custom throughout the country to pay a tax which was quite small to the sheriff of the district. This had been in existence before the Norman conquest and Henry proposed that this tax instead of being paid to the sheriffs should come to the national exchequer.

There was an outcry among the landowners. The sheriffs were appointed by the King whom they paid handsomely for their appointments. Because of these taxes collected from every man who owned land in their area they grew rich very quickly.

Thomas said that if the tax was paid into the exchequer the sheriffs would demand it be paid to them also, so that any man who owned land would in effect be paying a double tax.

He had a great following and he did not think he would have any difficulty in making the King see his point.

Henry, however, aware of the sly comments of the Queen who had hinted that he was ready to be guided by his Archbishop, decided that he would not give way in this issue.

Thomas’s vast lands in the See of Canterbury gave him a big interest in the matter, and he spoke in favour of the landowners.

‘Saving your pleasure, my lord King,’ he told Henry at the Council, ‘we will not pay these monies as a tax.’

How dared Thomas defy him! How dared he stand up before the Council and deliberately state that he would not do what the King demanded!

‘By God’s eyes,’ cried the King, using the oath he favoured when his anger was mounting that it might be a warning to any who heard it not to provoke him further, ‘they shall be paid as a tax and entered in the King’s books.’

‘Out of reverence for the same eyes,’ replied Thomas, ‘they will not be paid on my land, and not a penny from any land which, by law, belongs to the Church.’

Here - even on such a small matter - was the conflict between Church and State showing itself.

Henry knew that he had lost. The Church had its laws outside the State.

Eleanor affected to be amused by the outcome.

‘It would seem your clever Archbishop has more power than the King.’

‘It is this matter of the law of the Church against the law of the State,’ he grumbled.

‘It is time that was changed,’ said Eleanor. ‘Is the King the ruler of his country or is the Archbishop of Canterbury?’ She did not help to soothe his resentment.

It was inevitable that another cause for friction should arise. This took place very soon after the affair of the sheriff’s tax.

If a member of the Church committed a crime he was tried not by the King’s court of law but by a court set up by the Church. This was a matter which had long rankled among the high officials of the State. It was said that the courts set up by the Church were too lenient with their members, and that a much less harsh punishment was meted out to offenders than was the case in the secular court.

The case of Philip de Brois was an example.

This man was a canon who had been accused of murdering a soldier. This had taken place some time before, when Theobald was Archbishop and the diocesan court which had tried him had found him not guilty and acquitted him.

The matter was not allowed to rest. From time to time the King’s travelling judges visited various parts of the country in order to try and pass sentence on those who had committed crimes. It was this order instituted by Henry which had brought considerable law and order to the country and made the roads safe for travellers.

Several men who were convinced of the guilt of Philip de Brois captured him and brought him before the King’s Judge Simon Fitz-Peter.

De Brois, believing his case to have been settled, defied the Court. As a canon, he said, the King’s justiciary had no power over him and he demanded his release. He quoted the law and was released.

When the matter was reported to Henry he was furious.

‘The King’s justice has been insulted,’ he cried. ‘I’ll not allow this to pass. That man shall be taken and brought to trial and his judge shall be my justiciary Simon Fitz-Peter. We shall see how he fares then.’

News of what was happening was then brought to Thomas at Canterbury. He was still saddened by the matter of the sheriff ‘s tax. These conflicts between himself and the King he had foreseen, and now there was this matter of the accused canon.

He was convinced that the law of the Church must stand, even though it angered the King. They had argued about it in the old days, but good-humouredly. Now it was a matter of putting their beliefs into practice.

The King had always said: ‘The State should be supreme.’

And Thomas: ‘In all matters but where it infringes on the law of the Church.’

‘Is the Pope then ruler of England?’ Henry had demanded.

‘The Pope is head of the Church wherever it may be.’

Thomas knew how that rankled! Henry was not the first king to seek to throw off the restraint.

‘Philip de Brois cannot be tried by the King’s justiciary,’ declared Thomas. ‘But since the King demands another trial he shall be tried in my own court at Canterbury.’

The King was powerless. He knew that Thomas had the law of the Church on his side and until that was altered he must give way.

The second time in a few months! This was what came of making Thomas Becket Archbishop of Canterbury.

At the court of Canterbury Philip de Brois was again acquitted of murder but for his contempt of the King’s court he was sentenced to be flogged. He also had to forfeit two years of his salary from the Church.

‘So,’ cried the King, ‘the Archbishop of Canterbury allows his clerics to murder as they will.’

‘In the Archbishop of Canterbury’s court Philip de Brois was acquitted of murder,’ was Thomas’s answer.

‘One law for the churchman, one for the layman,’ cried the King. ‘By God, I’ll have justice in my land.’

He was however a little appeased by the sentence which had been passed on Philip de Brois. At least it showed that the Church had some respect for the King’s court.

But the rift was growing.

The King, urged on by his wife and mother, determined to take his battle against the Church a step further.

He called together a council at Westminster and at this declared that if a cleric was guilty of a crime he should be given over to the King’s officers to be punished. He demanded that the bishops support him on this point for he was determined to maintain law and order in the land. The force with which he addressed the company gave no doubt of the determination with which he backed up his demands; and everyone knew that this was a direct stab at Thomas Becket.

The Archbishop of York, that Roger de Pont L’Eveque who during their sojourn in Theobald’s household had hated Thomas because he was jealous of him, saw an opportunity of doing considerable harm to the man who had now risen to the highest peak of power in the Church.

Roger had watched the rise of Thomas; he had gnashed his teeth over the stories of the King’s love for that man; he had heard how they had roamed the country together, behaving as some said like two schoolboys, how they shared games and jokes and behaved like brothers. It was very galling to a man of Roger’s ambition to see Thomas Becket rise so high.

He saw now a chance of contributing to his fall, for if the King had once loved Becket, he was at this time irritated by his recent behaviour.

The members of the Church met to discuss the King’s ultimatum and the three chief of them were Roger of York, Hilary of Chichester and Gilbert Foliot of London. Right or wrong, Roger had decided that he would stand against the Archbishop. He persuaded the bishops that they must do this, for the King was too strong for them.

Thomas summoned them to Canterbury.

‘You are foolish!’ he cried. ‘What means this? It is the Church’s ruling that a man cannot be punished twice for the same crime. The liberty of the Church is involved in this.’

‘Of what use is the liberty of the Church, if the Church itself should perish?’

‘You are bewitched,’ cried Thomas. ‘Are we to add sin to sin? It is when the Church is in trouble and not merely in times of peace that a bishop should dare to do his duty. In the old days men gave their blood for the Church and now they must be prepared to die if need be in defence of the Church’s liberty. By God, I swear that it is not safe for us to leave that form which we have received from our fathers. We cannot expose anyone to death for we are not allowed to take part in any trial of life and death, and if we were to pass a man of the Church over to the secular court they could sentence him to death.’

Roger had to admit the power of the man and he could not persuade the others to stand out against him.

Henry plunged into another of his violent rages.

‘I will have obedience,’ he shouted. ‘I will not allow these clerics to defy me because of their cloth. I will have them swear, man by man, that they obey royal customs in all things.’

He sent for the bishops, including the one he called their master - Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury.

When they were gathered together he raged before them in such a manner as to strike terror into all their hearts - except that of Thomas. He had seen those rages before.

Oh Henry, he thought, how far we have grown apart. I knew it was the end of our friendship when I became your Archbishop.

Henry was saddened too. How different it used to be, Thomas! he thought. You were my friend when you were my Chancellor. Everything you did was for my good. You loved me; you served me well. And now you set yourself against me. You have another master, your Church. I’ll get you back, Thomas. I’ll force you back.

‘I will not speak to you collectively,’ declared the King, ‘but separately.’

He was gleeful. That was clever. Singly he could strike terror into their miserable hearts.

One by one the bishops gave way; Roger cynically, his eyes on future advancement at the time when Thomas was disgraced and sent into exile, or whatever fate the King had reserved for him, for then his place would be vacant and the King would give it to one who knew where his advantage lay.

Thomas could have wept with sorrow. The bishops had betrayed the Church. Of course he knew how violent Henry could be when he was fighting for his own way. He could understand what veiled threats were uttered; he knew exactly how those defaulting bishops would make peace with their consciences.

And then Thomas?

‘So you will not swear to serve your King?’ demanded Henry.

‘I will give him all earthly honour saving my order,’ answered Thomas.

The King might rave and rant but he would not swerve from that. Thomas remained adamant, and finally the King strode out in great anger.

In his private chamber he sent for his secretary.

‘Write to the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ he commanded. ‘Say that any posts, honours and land which came into his possession when he was Chancellor of this realm are to be resigned to me without delay.’

The secretary complied and the King felt a little eased. That would show Thomas what it meant to defy his master. Thomas loved his luxurious houses; he loved all the pomp that went with them. Very well, he should do without them.

Thomas immediately complied with the King’s demands.

‘That is settled then,’ said Henry.

The King made it clear that he had not done with this matter, but meanwhile another had arisen which gave him great cause for annoyance.

His brother Geoffrey was dead but his younger brother William still lived and Henry was eager to make provision for him. A young brother roaming the kingdom of England or the dukedom of Normandy could come to mischief.

He had often discussed this matter with his mother and they had decided that when an opportunity occurred for William to marry advantageously, he should take it.

The opportunity came. King Stephen’s son William had died in the service of Henry. His widow, the Countess of Warenne, was a very rich woman. Here was William’s chance, decided Henry.

He called William to him and told him of his plans; William decided that he must first see the lady and become acquainted with her before she knew that a match had been suggested between them.

Henry was nothing loath to a little romantic behaviour and when William came to him and told him that he loved the Countess of Warenne deeply, Henry was delighted.

‘The marriage should not be delayed,’ said the King, ‘for the sooner the Warenne estates are securely in the family the better.’

Opposition came from a quarter from which Henry was now becoming accustomed to getting it.

The Archbishop of Canterbury pointed out that William Plantagenet and William of Blois had been second cousins; therefore the marriage of a widow of one to the other was not legal.

Henry cursed the meddlesome Archbishop but in view of the fact that his own wife had obtained a divorce on the grounds of consanguinity with Louis of France, he could not demur.

He kept the Countess’s estates in the family by marrying her off to one of his illegitimate half-brothers, but he was very angry.

So was his brother William. He declared he would no longer stay in a country which was ruled by an archbishop, and went to join his mother in Normandy.

Matilda and he agreed about the character of Thomas Becket, and Matilda whipped up William’s resentment to fury. Henry had been a fool, as she had always said, to favour the man. He should have known that to pick a Chancellor out of the gutter was folly. She had over the years exaggerated Becket’s lowly origins. It had always been a characteristic of hers to make the facts fit her case. Thomas Becket would ruin the country she was sure. Henry should send him into exile and the sooner he appointed another Primate the better.

She would not let the matter rest. She discussed it day after day with her son until it seemed to him that he had lost everything that made life worth living. When he caught a cold his spirits were so low that he could not throw it off and it affected his chest.

In the draughty castle he grew very ill and in his delirium he talked of the Countess of Warenne and how he no longer wished to live because he had been unable to marry her.

When he died Matilda, wild with grief, proclaimed that Thomas Becket had killed her son.

She wrote at once to Henry.

‘Your brother is dead. Life was no longer worth living for him when he lost the woman he loved. Your Archbishop has done this.’

When the news reached Henry he was stunned.

William was but a young man - younger than he was! And he was dead! Was it possible to die of love? His mother declared it was. ‘If he had been allowed to marry the woman he loved this would never have happened to him,’ she insisted.

Nor would it, thought Henry. His wife would have cared for him for she loved him. But Thomas Becket would not permit the marriage to take place, and now my brother William is dead!

You have a lot to answer for, Thomas Becket, and this is something I shall never forget nor forgive.

Chapter XII THE KING’S TRIUMPH

Henry could not stop thinking of Becket. Sometimes he would awake from a dream in which they had been the friends they used to be when they were King and Chancellor together. No one could amuse him as Becket had done. He could find little pleasure in the company of others. Even at Woodstock he would find himself thinking of Becket.

The man seemed determined to plague him. What had happened to him? He had grown serious - the churchman had completely superseded the gay reveller, for Becket had been gay. How he had loved to sit at his table and look at the fine plate he possessed and the magnificent livery of his servants! If he himself ate frugally and drank little it had not mattered. It had been part of the eccentricity of the man which Henry had found so attractive.

Was there a way, he wondered, in which they could be reconciled? If only Becket would give way to his wishes the whole Church would follow him. As for the Pope, he was not in too happy a position and could make little trouble. Henry could reform the Church in his country and Alexander could not afford to raise a voice against him.

He decided to see Thomas and he sent a command for him to meet him at Northampton.

When the King arrived with his great retinue he sent a message to Thomas to stay where he was, for it would be impossible for the town to accommodate two great parties such as theirs would be.

And I doubt not, thought the King angrily, that your party is as grand and as great as mine for you were ever a lover of ostentation, my Archbishop.

They met in a field and Thomas rode his horse to meet that of the King. For a moment they remained looking at each other, and the knowledge of the great friendship which had once been theirs swept over them both so that it was an emotional moment.

Then the King said: ‘Dismount. We will walk and talk.’

This they did and the King took Thomas’s arm as he said, ‘I marvel you have forgotten all the favours I have shown you. I wonder how you could be so ungrateful as to oppose me in everything.’

‘My lord, I am not ungrateful for favours received from you alone nor from God through you. I would never resist your will as long as it is also the will of God. You are my lord. But God is your Lord and mine also and it would be good for neither of us if I should leave His will for yours. One day we shall both stand before Him to be judged.’

The King made an impatient movement but Thomas would not be silenced. He went on: ‘St Peter says we must obey God rather than man. And although I would obey the wishes of my King whenever it was possible I could not do so if they went against my duty to God.’

‘Pray do not preach me sermons,’ retorted Henry. ‘I have not come here for that.’

‘I do not intend to preach, my lord, only to tell you what is my mind concerning these matters.’

‘And what think you is in my mind? Is the King to be tutored by one of his rustics?’

‘You refer to my humble birth. It is true I am not royal. St Peter was not royal either but God gave him the keys of Heaven and made him the head of the Catholic Church.’

‘That is true,’ said the King. ‘But then he died for his Lord.’

‘I will die for my Lord when the time comes.’

‘You have risen high and you think that because of this which has come to you through my goodness you are of such importance that you may defy me. Do not trust too much in my friendship.’

‘I trust in the Lord,’ said Thomas soberly, ‘for foolish is the man who puts his trust in men.’

‘Enough of this, Thomas. We are almost in agreement. I just wish you to swear to serve your King.’

‘So will I, but only when serving him does not conflict with the will of God.’

‘Only when … ! I will not have conditions. Swear to serve your King.’

‘I could not … without that condition.’

‘I have tried to reason with you, but you will not be reasoned with. Because of the friendship I once felt for you and could feel again, I have met you here. I wished to speak to you in person. I am offering to accept you again, Thomas, that things may be as they once were before between us. I have been fond of you. I miss you. Do you remember how amusing life was when we were together? Come Thomas. All you have to do is say a few words. Say them, Thomas, and all will be well.’

‘I cannot say what you wish, my lord, for as I see it to do so would be to deny my God.’

‘A plague on your sermons and a plague on you, Becket. I have raised you up. So could I put you back. Think of that, rustic. And remember you stand against the King.’

With that he turned and left Thomas.

There was only one thing to be done and that was to appeal to the Pope. In France news of the conflict between King and Archbishop had already been received. Louis sent letters of encouragement to Thomas and hinted that if he should find it impossible to go on living in England there would be a welcome for him in France.

The position of the Pope was not a very happy one. The Emperor of Germany had joined forces with his rival and had forced Alexander to leave Italy. He was now residing uneasily in France. He was afraid to offend Henry as he had been on other occasions. At the same time he believed that Thomas was in the right.

But it came to his ears that Henry Plantagenet had uttered threats against him and because of his very precarious position he could not face any opposition from that quarter. Wanting to applaud Becket he must yet placate the King, who had already written his account of the matter.

The Pope would understand, wrote Henry, that a King could not tolerate what appeared to be disobedience in any of his subjects be they priests or merchants. All he wished was a statement from the Archbishop to the effect that he would serve his King in all ways, and this he must have for the sake of his kingly dignity. Neither the Pope nor the Archbishop must think for one moment that he would take advantage of this. He wanted to see a strong Church. He knew full well that it was their religious beliefs that kept men virtuous. Did they think he wanted a nation of thieves and robbers and irreligious men? Not he! But a king could not have it be known that some of his subjects believed they could defy him; ay, and had boasted of it in public.

The Pope wrote to Thomas to the effect that he believed there should be moderation and submission for thus he was sure that Thomas could avert great trouble which would bring no good to the Church. He commanded Thomas to submit to the King for, he added, he believed the King would accept nothing else and this was not the time for the Church to quarrel with the King of England.

When he received this letter, Thomas was astonished and depressed. He must obey the Pope.

He discovered that the King was at Woodstock, and there in his palace Henry agreed to see him.

Henry was in a good mood. He invariably was at Woodstock, and when he heard that Thomas was asking for an audience he received him at once.

‘Well, Thomas?’

‘My lord, I have heard from His Holiness.’

‘And what instructions have you had from him?’ asked the King.

‘He tells me that I must do as you wish. I must agree to serve you wholeheartedly.’

‘Ah,’ said the King. ‘So our little trouble is over. You have decided to pay me the homage due to your King?’

‘The Pope has sent his command.’

‘He had wisdom enough for that,’ said Henry with a laugh.

‘I cannot disobey him.’

‘But you don’t agree with him?’ cried Henry.

‘I think I was right in what I did.’

‘But you will now withdraw. That is better. You will swear absolute allegiance to your King.’

‘I do,’ said Thomas, ‘for I am instructed by the Pope that this assurance is only to preserve your dignity and you will not put into action any reforms regarding the Church.’

‘You have sworn, Thomas.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘That is good. You have sworn to me in private, but because you declared your disobedience in public, in public must you swear your allegiance. Farewell, Thomas. We shall meet soon. I shall summon you to Clarendon where you may make your oath of submission publicly.’

No sooner had Thomas received the King’s summons to Clarendon than he began to question what he had done.

The Pope was in a difficult position; he had advised him to submit to Henry because he feared the King’s antagonism. Thomas should never have taken his advice. He knew Henry well. Who should know him better? During the years when he had been his Chancellor and they had roamed the countryside together he had become familiar with every twist and turn of that violent nature. When Henry had made up his mind to have something, he was going to have it. He would lie, cheat, fight, threaten to do anything to obtain it. He had no scruples and now it was clear that he had made a vow that he was going to subdue his one-time friend and Chancellor. He had to show Thomas that he was his superior. It had always been so in their games and practical jokes. Henry liked a good adversary that he might glean more glory in victory.

His promises that he had no wish to interfere with the Church meant nothing. Of course he wanted to interfere with the Church. He wanted to bring it to heel as he did his dogs. He was going to make the Church serve the State. He might pay lip service to the Pope, but everyone in the kingdom be they bishops or archbishops must learn that he was master.

And Thomas had privately agreed to accept his rule in all matters - because a weak Pope had been afraid to order him to do otherwise.

Thomas spent hours on his knees in prayer. His hair shirt tortured him, even more than it would most men for his poor circulation made his skin extra sensitive. Yet he did this penance in the hope that he might expiate his sins and win God’s help. He thought of his pride when Richer de L’Aigle had taken him to Pevensey, and the joy he had found in living the life of a nobleman. He thought of his rich garments, his cloaks lined with fur, his velvet doublets, the delight he had taken in being the King’s constant companion. Earthly vanity that had been. Was he being asked to pay for it now?

As soon as he had become Archbishop of Canterbury he had changed. His love of luxury had abated for he had seen the folly of it. He remembered how he had turned his face from Canterbury, how he had tried so hard not to take the post, for he knew it would be an end to the merry life.

And now his feet were firmly placed on a path which he must follow, for it was his destiny.

He trusted that God would show him what to do at Clarendon for he knew what happened there was going to affect his future for good or ill.

In the great hall, Henry was seated in the centre of the dais and on his left hand was his son, young Henry, who was nine years old.

The boy’s eyes lit up at the sight of Thomas and the Archbishop’s heart warmed to him. There was one who loved him. He did not meet the King’s eyes but he knew that the elder Henry watched him covertly.

As Primate he took the place on the right hand of the King - the second most important post in the kingdom. There were the bishops all assembled and among them the Archbishop of York, Roger de Pont l’Eveque. Roger could not hide his satisfaction. He would be remembering the old days in the household of Theobald when a certain young man - not of noble birth - had joined the young men there and won the old Archbishop’s affection as none of the others had done. Roger had done his best to appease his envy by getting Thomas expelled; he had succeeded in this on two occasions but when Thomas had been recalled he was in higher favour than ever. How envious Roger must have been when he heard of the King’s friendship with the man he hated! People used to say in those days: The King loves the Chancellor more than any other living being.

And now here was triumph, for everyone in that hall knew that they had been assembled to witness the public humiliation of the King’s one-time beloved friend.

Yet Thomas had his sympathisers there - mellow men, men of integrity. One was Henry of Winchester, brother of King Stephen, a man who had once had great ambitions, but who had long discarded them realising their emptiness. He knew the nature of the King and that of Thomas too. The Earl of Leicester and Richard de Luci were good honest men who served the King well. They would not go against Henry but they did not wish to see such a man as Thomas Becket humiliated. They understood his scruples and applauded them and would rather that it had not been necessary to call this meeting.

If Thomas knew the King, the King knew Thomas. He was well aware that Thomas had given him his verbal promise because as a churchman he had believed he must obey the Pope. It was a slip, Thomas, thought the King exultantly. Your poor weak Pope trembled for his own skin, and you fell into the trap. And now you regret it. And you can well refuse to take the oath in public. And I know you well. I know your eloquence. I know that you could sway a multitude to your way of thinking. Look around the hall, Thomas. See the armed men I have had stationed here. Others see them. They will know for what purpose they are here. There is not a man in this hall who would dare offend his King, Thomas. Except perhaps you. Consider the folly of it, Thomas.

He himself opened the meeting.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, he said, had come to swear before them all that he would unconditionally serve his King.

Thomas rose from his seat.

‘My lord,’ he said. ‘I will swear to serve my King when that service does not conflict with my duty to the Church.’

The King’s face was scarlet, his eyes blazed and every man in the hall save Thomas trembled. Thomas felt only exultation, for he had done what he believed was right. He had feared that in that assembly he might have quailed, but he had come through safely, and he felt he was sustained by God.

Henry’s fury broke forth. So great was his rage that he was incoherent. He could only fling abuse at his Archbishop. Thomas remained calm and pale as though he did not hear the King.

Nor did he. He was thinking, I have taken the first step. Whatever happens to me I must accept. If it is death then it will soon be over and I shall have died for God and the Church.

The King suddenly strode out of the hall. His son took a trembling look at Thomas and followed him. Thomas caught the cynical eye of the Archbishop of York, who in those seconds could not disguise his pleasure.

Thomas made his way to his lodging that he might meditate and pray for strength to go on as he had begun. It was not long before Joceline, Bishop of Salisbury and Roger, Bishop of Worcester called on him.

‘Come in, my friends,’ said Thomas.

They came in and regarded him with fearful eyes.

‘We implore you, my lord,’ said the Bishop of Salisbury, ‘to make your peace with the King.’

‘I do not wish to be at war with the King,’ answered Thomas.

‘He will kill us all if you do not take the oath, my lord.’

‘Then we must die. It will not be the first time that men have died for the Church of God. Countless hosts of saints have taught us by word and example: God’s will be done.’

‘You have seen the King’s mood. You saw the armed men who filled the hall.’

‘I saw them,’ said Thomas. ‘Pray for courage. It may be that our hour has come. If so, our only fear must be that we may lack the courage to face it. Pray for that courage. God will not fail you.’

They went away sorrowing and in great fear. Then came the Earl of Leicester and the King’s uncle, the Earl of Cornwall.

‘The King considers himself to have been insulted,’ said Leicester. ‘He declares he will be avenged.’

‘Then avenged he must be.’

‘You have only to swear that you will give absolute obedience to the King.’

‘I am a man of the Church.’

‘The King declares that you have promised him in private to serve him.’

‘I told him that the Pope had advised me to.’

‘We advise you too, my lord. We are your friends. We deplore this quarrel between you and the King.’

‘I know you to be my good friends and I thank you for it. I know you to be wise men. It is easy for you to swear to serve the King absolutely because you have not given your allegiance to the Church. I have told the King that I will obey him in all temporal matters. It is only when his will conflicts with that of Holy Church that I must disobey him and follow my true Master.’

‘The King is in an ugly mood.’

‘I know those moods well. Many times have I witnessed them.’

‘Never before were they directed in earnest against you.’

‘I know that the King is a man who will not be crossed. He will have what he wants and if he wants my blood I doubt not that he will have it.’

‘He does not want your blood, only your obedience.’

‘But if I cannot give him what he asks?’

‘We fear, my lord, that we may be called upon to do you to death. That would to us be a crime, but we must perforce commit it if it is the King’s command that we should.’

‘Ah, gentlemen, that is a matter for your consciences.’

‘If you would but swear …’

‘Nay, my lords. That is something I cannot do. Leave me now. Go to the quiet of your chambers and pray that when your hour of decision comes God will enable you to do what is right.’

Thomas was still on his knees when there was yet another visitor. This was the Grand Master of the English Templars, Richard of Hastings, and with him came another of the Templars, Hostes of Boulogne.

These were holy men and Thomas trusted them. They were in the King’s confidence and assured Thomas that they knew his mind and that he had talked to them of his true feelings.

‘The King has a deep affection for you still, my lord Archbishop,’ said Richard of Hastings. ‘He wishes us to be his mediators. He says you will readily understand the position in which by the stubbornness of your determination and the violence of his temper you have been placed. This matter has gone so far that he cannot retreat. It would seem weak in a king, who having shown what he says he is determined to have, to accept something less. He has sworn to us that he wishes only to have your oath in public and if you will give it he will not tamper with the laws of the Church.’

‘Is this indeed so?’ asked Thomas.

‘He has sworn it is so.’

‘He does not always keep his promises.’

‘He has asked what good would come to the realm if he had an open quarrel with the Church. What harm would come if he quarrelled with his Primate so as to make a rift between the State and the Church? The King wants a reconciliation with you. If you will but return to the hall and give him what he wants you need have no fear. The King has given his word. But you must swear in public to take the oath of absolute obedience to the Crown.’

‘You have indeed come from the King?’

‘We have indeed.’

‘And he has sworn that he will keep to his promises not to interfere in Church matters?’

‘He has sworn.’

‘Then I will send for my bishops and tell them that on your advice and assurances I can make this oath in public.’

Thomas returned to the hall. The Archbishop of York watched him cynically while the others looked as though a great burden had fallen from their shoulders.

The King was almost merry. His eyes were kindly and full of affection as he turned to his Archbishop of Canterbury.

Thomas rose to his feet and swore to the assembly that he would obey the customs of the realm in good faith.

‘You have all heard what the Archbishop has promised me on his own part,’ cried the King in a loud voice. ‘Now it only remains that at his bidding the other bishops should do the same.’

‘I will that they satisfy your honour as I have done,’ said Thomas.

All the bishops rose and made their promise. Only Joceline Bishop of Salisbury hesitated and looked at Thomas.

‘What ails you, my lord Bishop of Salisbury?’ roared the King.

‘You are sure, my lord,’ asked the bishop looking at Thomas, ‘that it is right for me to take this oath?’

‘By God’s eyes,’ cried the King, ‘that man is ever against me.’

His eyes narrowed and he had turned to one of his armed soldiers.

Thomas said quickly: ‘You should take the oath, my lord, as we all have done.’ And forthwith Joceline of Salisbury took the oath.

‘Now,’ cried the King, ‘everyone here has heard the promises the archbishops and bishops have made that the laws and customs of my kingdom shall be observed. In order that there may be no further dispute on the subject, let my grandfather Henry’s laws be committed to writing.’

The meeting ended in triumph for the King.

Chapter XIII FLIGHT FROM ENGLAND

In the great hall the justiciary Richard de Luci read out the clauses of the code which was known as the Constitution of Clarendon, and Thomas realised at once that he had been duped. Henry had had no more compunction in lying to the Templars than he had to him. He had been ready to promise anything to gain his point. Sometimes Thomas thought that this was not so much a quarrel between Church and State as a conflict between Thomas Becket and Henry II of England. It was like one of the games they had played in the past, only this time it was in deadly earnest.

When the Clerk read out that clerics were to be tried on all accusations by the King’s justiciary, Thomas could not forbear crying out: ‘This is against the laws of the Church. Christ is judged anew before Pilate.’ Another clause stated that no one must leave the kingdom without the King’s consent.

‘The kingdom will become a prison,’ said Thomas. ‘What of those who wish to go on holy pilgrimages? What of those members of the Church who were summoned by the Pope to attend a council? Would they not be obliged to obey the Pope even if the King refused permission?’

There was worse to follow. There should be no appeals to the Pope without the King’s consent.

‘How could an archbishop agree to this?’ demanded Thomas. ‘When he receives the pallium he takes an oath not to hinder appeals to the Pope.’

As Thomas protested the King sat glowering at him and when the reading was over he stood up and in a voice of thunder cried: ‘Now shall the members of the clergy sign and seal these constitutions and the Archbishop of Canterbury shall do so first.’

Thomas looked at his bishops, some of whom hung their heads in shame while others, more bold, looked at him appealingly. To sign and seal such a document was to deny their duty. The Bishop of Salisbury murmured that if they signed it they would be guilty of perjury.

The King looked on. His armed guard was standing alert. One word from him and there would be a bloody massacre.

‘God help me,’ prayed Thomas.

Then he said in a clear voice: ‘We need time to study this document. I am sure the King in his grace will give us a few hours to discuss it together in private.’

He picked up a copy - there were three - and the Archbishop of York took another.

He mounted his horse and with his small company about him, he rode to Winchester. He despised himself. He had gone too far along the road to placating the King. He should never have taken the oath in public; he should never have agreed to it in private. He should have led his weaker brethren. He should have defied the King, inviting death. What mattered it if he were done to death? All that mattered was that he should be faithful to God and the Church.

He could hear the members of his suite discussing the Constitution.

‘What could he have done?’ asked one. ‘If he had defied the King more openly it would have been the end for us all.’

‘Yet has he not endangered the liberties of the Church?’ asked another.

His standard-bearer, a Welshman of an impetuous nature, cried out suddenly, ‘Iniquity rages through the land. No one is safe who loves the truth. Now that the chief has fallen, who will stand?’

‘To whom do you refer?’ asked Thomas.

‘To you,’ answered the Welshman. ‘You, my lord, who have betrayed your conscience and your fame and the Church. You have acted in a manner which is hateful to God and against justice. You have joined with the ministers of Satan to overthrow the Church.’

‘Oh God of Heaven, you are right,’ cried Thomas. ‘I have brought the Church into slavery. I came not from the cloister but from the Court, not from the school of Christ but from Caesar’s service. I have been proud and vain. I have been foolish. I see that I have been deserted by God and am only fit to be cast out of the Holy See.’

His Archdeacon rode up beside him.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘if you have fallen low, rise up bravely. Be cautious and strong and the Lord will help you. Did He not make David great and was he not an adulterer and a murderer? Did not Peter deny Him thrice and was he not the founder of His Church? You have been Saul and now you are Paul. You know what you must do. The Lord will help you do it.’

‘You are right, my friend,’ said Thomas. ‘I will start again. God will be beside me and never again will I fall so low. I will die for the Church if need be.’

There seemed to be only one thing Thomas could do. He must see the Pope. He must tell him everything that had happened and ask what he must do next. The King’s edict was that no one should leave the country without his consent. Even so he must get away. The King had ignored him but he would not continue to do so. Thomas knew that Henry was trying to shift the power from Canterbury to York for he was aware that in Roger there was a man of immense ambition as well as an enemy of Thomas Becket.

Thomas disguised himself as a wandering monk and with a few members of his suite rode to Romney where he had arranged that a boat should be waiting for him.

He reached the coast without mishap but so violent a wind had blown up that he was forced to abandon the project.

He could not remain at Romney but must return to Canterbury, and this he did. But he intended to try again in a clement season, and one day when the weather was mild he set out again.

His servants, believing that he had now reached France, were afraid to stay in his palace and with the exception of one cleric and his boy servant, they left.

They talked awhile of the sad fate of the Archbishop and how the man, who many had said had ruled the King, for when he was Chancellor the King had loved him dearly, was now fallen so low, the lower for having risen so high.

‘Ah, my boy, it is a lesson to us all,’ said the cleric. ‘Now go and make sure the doors are shut and bolted that we may sleep safely this night. In the morning we must depart, for it will not be long before the King’s men arrive. They will take away all the worldly goods of the Archbishop for the King would despoil him not only of his office but of his goods as well.’

The boy took a lantern and went to do his master’s bidding, and as he came into the courtyard in order to close the outer door he saw a figure slumped against the wall. He held the lantern high and peered. Then he let out a shriek and ran to his master.

‘I have seen a ghost,’ he cried. ‘The Archbishop is dead and has come to haunt the place.’

The cleric took the lantern and went to see for himself.

He found no ghost but Thomas himself.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘you are back then?’

‘The sailors who were to take the boat across to France recognised me,’ said Thomas. ‘They would not sail, so fearful were they of the King’s wrath. I see that God does not wish me to escape.’

If this were so then he must try other methods. It occurred to him that if he could see Henry, if he could talk reasonably, if he could remind him of their past friendship they might yet come to an understanding.

He asked for a meeting and somewhat to his surprise the King, who was at Woodstock, agreed to see him.

Henry was in a mellow mood. He had spent a few days in the company of Rosamund and their two children, and these sojourns always had a softening effect on him.

When Henry saw Thomas he noticed how wan he had become.

‘You’ve aged,’ he said. ‘You are not the merry reveller you once were.’

‘Nor are you, my lord King, the friend who joined in our fun.’

‘We have had our differences,’ answered Henry, ‘and alas they persist. Why did you attempt to leave the country? Is there not room here for us both?’

Thomas looked at the King sadly, but Henry would not meet his gaze.

The King went on: ‘Why have you asked for this audience? What have you to say to me?’

‘I had hoped, my lord, that you might have something to say to me.’

‘There is much I would say to you, but first there is one thing that you must say to me. Have you come to your senses, Becket?’

‘If you mean by that have I come to sign and seal the Constitution I can only say nay.’

‘Then go,’ cried the King. ‘There is nothing else I want to hear from you.’

‘I had hoped for the sake of the past …’

‘By God’s eyes, man, will you obey my orders or will you not? Go! Get from my sight. I will hear one thing from you and one only.’

Thomas came sorrowing away.

The Queen had followed the conflict between Becket and Henry with some interest. It amused her to recall how great their friendship had been and how there was a time when Henry preferred that man’s company to anyone else’s. It was strange to think that she had been jealous of Becket. Who would be jealous of him now? Poor broken old man. If she were not so pleased by his downfall she could be sorry for him.

She was forty-two years of age now - still a beautiful woman, still able to attract men, or so her troubadours implied. They still sang songs to her and she did not feel that they flattered her overmuch.

Since her marriage with Henry she had not wanted any other man, which was strange when she considered how he angered her; but then perhaps it was because he did anger her that she found his company so stimulating.

Now when they talked together of Becket, she did not say to him as his mother had done, ‘I told you so.’ She let him pour out his disappointment in that man and fed his anger against him. It brought them nearer together.

She often wondered how many mistresses he had scattered about the country. As long as there were several of them it was not really important. The only thing she would not tolerate was if there was one who specially took his fancy.

But no! She was sure this was not so. And the fact that she could talk to him of the exigencies of Thomas Becket certainly brought them closer together.

They were passionate lovers at this time, almost as they had been in the early days of their marriage. It was intriguing that his hatred of Becket was driving him into her bed.

He would lie awake sometimes and talk about him. He would tell her little incidents from the past which she had never heard before. How he had often tried to tempt Becket to indiscretions with women and never succeeded.

‘You didn’t try hard enough,’ she told him.

‘But I did. I even sought to trap him. But not he. I don’t believe he ever slept with a woman in his life.’

‘What sort of a man is he?’

‘Oh, manly enough. He can ride and hawk with the best. He is skilled in all the arts of chivalry.’

‘And where could a rustic learn such things?’

‘He was always an appealing fellow. Some knight taught him these things when he was quite a boy.’

‘He is a schemer. He wormed his way into Theobald’s good graces. I believe the Archbishop of York could tell you some stories.’

‘I never liked that fellow. Though he’d be loyal to me rather than to Thomas. He’s ambitious. I thought Thomas was, but he’s changed.’

‘You should not allow him to flout you.’

‘He is Archbishop of Canterbury. He would have to resign of his own volition.’

‘You should make it impossible for him to cling to office.’

‘How so?’

‘Is it beyond your powers? You know a good deal of how he lived when he was constantly in your company. There must have been something you could bring against him.’

The King’s eyes shone. ‘I will do it,’ he said. ‘I will find something from Roger of York, and John the Marshall will surely contrive something.’

‘Then do this, for I do assure you that that man is determined to plague you and while he is Archbishop of Canterbury you will not be true King of England. Could you bear now to hear of something other than the affairs of your Thomas Becket? Then listen to me. I am pregnant again.’

The King expressed his pleasure. He would welcome an addition to the nursery. A girl or a boy. He would not mind which.

All the same his mind was still on Thomas Becket.

As Eleanor said, it was easy. John the Marshall some time before had claimed the manor of Pagham which was on one of the archiepiscopal estates. The case which had been tried in the Archbishop’s court had been decided in Thomas’s favour. Now he could have the case re-tried in the King’s court and accordingly a summons to attend was sent to the Archbishop.

After his meeting with the King, Thomas had grown so sick at heart that he had become ill and had had to take to his bed. He was therefore unable to obey the summons and sent four of his knights to the court in his place.

This gave John the Marshall a chance. To ignore a summons to court showed a contempt of it and this was a crime.

Thomas was ordered to appear before a council at Northampton to answer the accusation. When he approached Northampton a rider met him with the news that the lodgings which were always at his disposal in that town had been given by the King to another member of the council; he must therefore find his own shelter.

Thomas saw then that the King was determined to humiliate him, but fortunately he could go to the Saint Andrew’s Monastery. Still hoping to bring about a reconciliation, Thomas went to the castle to pay his respects to the King. Henry was at Mass when he arrived and Thomas was obliged to wait in the ante-room for the service to be over. When it was, Henry emerged, and as Thomas went forward ready to kiss his hand, if it were extended to him for this purpose, the King walked past him as though he did not see him.

This was indeed the end, thought Thomas. The King would neither receive nor listen to him. He was clearly bent on his destruction, and if Thomas would preserve his life he must get out of the country.

When the Council sat, Thomas was called to account for having held the King’s court in contempt. He explained that he had been ill and had sent his knights to stand in for him. This was not accepted and a fine of PS500 was imposed.

Then came another list of charges. PS300 was demanded for it was said he had received this as the warden of the castles of Berkhamstead and Eye. Thomas replied that he had spent this and more in repairs to the King’s palace of the Tower of London and far from having profited from any money he had received, he had spent far more in the King’s service.

Thomas’s heart was heavy for he saw that the King was determined to ruin him. He had cast back in his mind to the days of their friendship when the King had given him money that he might live in a manner similar to his own. Now he demanded that this money should be paid back. Moreover Thomas had received revenues from several bishoprics and abbeys and the sum mentioned was some 40,000 marks.

It was no use. Thomas could not fight against such injustice. When he came out of the council chamber that day he believed the end was near.

The next day he was back. His Archdeacon Herbert had said to him: ‘My lord, we do not know what this day will bring forth, but forget not that you have the power to excommunicate all those who stand against you.’

William FitzStephen, one of his faithful canons, replied: ‘Our lord would not do that. The Holy Apostles did not do it when they were taken. My lord will pray for them I doubt not and forgive them.’

Thomas laid his hand on FitzStephen’s shoulder and blessed him.

Thomas was allowed to retire to an inner chamber and there to discuss with his bishops what action he should take against the charges which were being brought; and finally in great impatience the King sent some of his barons to inquire whether Thomas Becket was prepared to give an account of the money he had spent during his Chancellorship.

Thomas replied with dignity that he was ready to obey the King in all things saving God’s obedience. He was not bound he said to give an account of his Chancellorship and had been summoned to the court to answer the charges brought by John the Marshall and none other.

‘I would remind you,’ he said, ‘that when I was chosen to become Archbishop, before my consecration I was delivered over by the King to the Church of Canterbury, free from all secular claims. I place my person and the Church of Canterbury under the protection of God and the Pope.’

When the King heard what Thomas had said his fury was obvious and one of his knights reminded him that his great-grandfather, William the Conqueror, had known how to tame clerics. Had he not imprisoned Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, who was his own brother?

In the inner chamber, hearing of the King’s wrath, the bishops believed that the Archbishop would be imprisoned and doubtless have his eyes put out. They feared too that they who had been with Thomas and had listened to him and stood beside him would suffer a like fate.

It was the Earl of Leicester, a man of principle who clearly had no liking for his task, who came into the chamber.

‘The King will have you deliver up your accounts or hear your sentence,’ he told Thomas.

‘Hear me first,’ replied Thomas. ‘You, my lord Leicester, know full well that I had no wish to become the Archbishop of Canterbury and that it was the King who willed it. It was for love of him rather than for love of God that I gave way, which is why today both God and the King have deserted me. You know that when the post was given me I was declared free of all secular obligations.’

‘I know it,’ answered Leicester. ‘I would not pass judgement on you.’

‘Then I am not your prisoner.’

‘Nay, my lord.’

‘Then I shall go from here. I shall appeal to the Pope.’

Thomas then rose and passed out of the chamber. As he went he stumbled over some faggots and almost fell. At that moment a sneer arose in the company and the King’s bastard brother who was standing by called, ‘There goes a traitor.’

Thomas surveyed him in such a manner that the man quailed before him.

‘If I were a soldier,’ said Thomas, ‘with my own hands I should prove you false.’

He mounted his horse and rode to the monastery of Saint Andrew’s. There he retired to his private chapel and spent a long time on his knees, and when he went to the refectory he found that of the forty knights who had accompanied him to Northampton only six remained.

‘Your table is depleted,’ he said sadly, but many poor people came into the monastery and begged to be allowed to gaze on the face of the man whom they were calling the saviour of the Church, and they were Thomas’s guests at that meal.

When it was over Thomas asked that his bed should be placed behind the high altar. Before he retired to it he called one of his servants to him. This was Roger de Brai, a man whom he knew he could trust to serve him with his life.

‘Roger,’ he said, ‘my life is in danger. It may be this night the King will send his guards to take me.’

A look of horror crossed Roger’s face. He could visualise the fate which could await the Archbishop. Incarceration in a dungeon, his eyes perhaps gouged out. Left to live out a dark and wretched existence, for the King might have qualms about murdering the Archbishop of Canterbury.

‘I think it is God’s will that I should not be taken,’ said Thomas. ‘If I were, the fight would be over. Roger of York would fall in with the King’s wishes. Henry is already trying to set York over Canterbury. This must not be. I am going to get away to France … if it is God’s will. The King of France will be my friend and I can reach the Pope.’

‘What would you have me do, my lord?’

‘Tell Robert de Cave and Scailman to be ready to leave with me. I can trust them as I trust you. Then saddle four horses and have them ready. These horses must not come from my stables. Take them to the monastery gate and the three of you wait there as though holding the horses for someone who is visiting the monastery. I will join you there.’

‘It is a rough night, my lord.’

‘I know it. I can hear the wind and rain, Roger. But it is tonight or not at all.’

Roger went away to do his bidding and Thomas went to his bed behind the high altar. He was conducted there by Herbert his Archdeacon, and when they were alone Thomas embraced him and told him what he had planned.

‘It is the only way,’ agreed Herbert. ‘You must attempt to escape tonight. Tomorrow might be too late. The King’s mood is very ugly. I wondered you were not arrested in the council chamber.’

‘I know Henry. His courage deserted him at the last moment. He wants control of the Church but he is afraid of God’s wrath. That mood will not last for before anything is his determination to have his own way. My dear good friend, I wish you to lose no time in going to Canterbury. Collect what valuables you can carry and then cross the sea. Wait for me there if you should arrive first, which may well be. Go to the monastery of Saint Bertin near Saint Omer. I trust ere long that we shall meet there. Now be gone. We must lose no time.’

The Archdeacon kissed the hands of his Archbishop, asked for his blessing and was gone.

The church was quiet. The monastery slumbered. Thomas rose from his bed and took off his stole. He put on his black cappa, and taking only his pallium and his archiepiscopal seal set out.

Roger with the two lay brothers, Robert and Scailman, were waiting with the horses.

They went through the unguarded gate of the town and rode on to Grantham where they rested for a while. After that they reached Lincoln.

It was a long and tortuous journey and every minute they feared discovery, for so far had they to travel that the King’s men might have caught them in any town where they paused to rest.

But Thomas had loyal supporters throughout the country. Many people knew that this was a struggle between the Church and the State and that the King sought to set himself in sole judgement over them. They knew that Thomas Becket was a good man. He had given much to the poor; he was a man of God who had dared defy the King. They were already looking upon him as a saint. There were few who would not feel honoured to give him shelter in their houses, and Thomas was determined to protect them by denying his identity whenever it was questioned. Thus he came to the fen country and finally to the village of Eastry close to Sandwich and but eight miles from Canterbury.

They stayed for a while in the house of a priest who found a boat for them and kept them in his house until the time came when it appeared they could make the crossing with safety.

The boat was small, the sea was rough, but they could wait no longer.

‘We will place ourselves in God’s hands,’ said Thomas. ‘If it is his will that we live then we shall and if the sea takes us then that is his will too.’

They set off; the little boat was tossed cruelly on the waves but miraculously it seemed to keep afloat and the very violence of the wind blew the boat across the water. They landed on the sands at Oie, not far from Gravelines.

‘Thank God,’ cried Roger, but Thomas was not sure that they were out of danger yet.

He was right because they discovered that they were in the territory which belonged to the Earl of Boulogne. This was that Matthew who had married the Abbess of Romsey, the match which Thomas had opposed. Matthew had borne him a grudge for this, for although the marriage had gone through it was only due to the King’s cunning that it had and Thomas had done all in his power to prevent it.

‘We dare not risk falling into the hands of the Earl of Boulogne,’ said Thomas. ‘He would send me back to the King.’

So it was no use hoping for comfort. They must continue their arduous journey on foot as though they were four itinerant lay brothers. Until they had left the realm of the Earl of Boulogne they would not be safe, and there were many alarms during the journey, for the news had spread that the Archbishop of Canterbury had landed and people looked out for him.

He almost betrayed himself on one occasion when the three footsore travellers came upon a party of young men out hawking. In a careless moment Thomas showed his interest and knowledge of the hawk on the wrist of the leader of the party.

‘How should a travelling lay brother know of such things?’ asked the young man. ‘By my faith, I believe you to be the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

Scailman, who was quicker witted than Roger or Robert, said quickly, ‘You must be a simpleton if you imagine the Archbishop of Canterbury would travel in this manner.’

”Tis true,’ said the young man. ‘I remember when he came here as the Chancellor of England. Never had such magnificence been seen.’

They passed on while the young man was telling his companions of the brilliantly caparisoned horses and the reputed extravagances of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

‘We must take greater care,’ said Scailman.

‘I must take heed that I do not fall into the trap of betraying myself,’ answered Thomas. ‘But for your quick wits, Brother Scailman, that could have been an awkward moment.’

How thankful he was to see the towers of Clairmarais, a monastery close to Saint Omer. There he was given a great welcome and a messenger was sent to Saint Bertin where Herbert had already arrived.

They embraced each other, delighted that they had completed the most hazardous part of their journey. But there was no time for delay. Thomas should rest awhile at Saint Bertin and then they must make their way to Soissons.

‘Once we are there,’ said Herbert, ‘we can make sure of the protection of the King of France.’

Within a few days they had reached that sanctuary.

Chapter XIV ROSAMUND’S BOWER

There was a great rejoicing in France for Louis’s wife had given birth to a son. A male heir for France when it had been despaired of. Louis was delighted; all over France the bells rang out and the news was proclaimed through the streets of Paris. He had feared that he could beget only daughters.

Henry heard the news with despondency. His son Henry was married to Marguerite of France and he had hoped that on the death of Louis, since the French King had then no male heir, young Henry might take the crown. He would after all have a certain claim through his wife and with the King of England and Duke of Normandy behind him, his power would be great.

Alas, fate had decided against him.

Eleanor shared his chagrin and she herself very shortly afterwards gave birth to a daughter. They called her Joanna.

The birth of his son seemed to add a new dimension to Louis’s character. He cast off much of his meekness. He had a son to plan for now. This showed immediately in his reception of Thomas Becket to whom he accorded a very warm welcome.

‘It is one of the royal dignities of France to protect fugitives, especially men of the Church, from their persecutors,’ he said. He would do everything in his power to help Thomas reach the Pope.

Henry’s feelings were incomprehensible even to himself. He was half pleased that Thomas had escaped. He could have arrested him in the council chamber. Why had he not done so? he asked himself many times. Because he did not want Thomas’s blood on his hands. The man exasperated him beyond endurance; he set the hot blood rushing to his head; and yet at the same time he could not entirely suppress a tenderness for him. Often memories of the old days would come crowding into his mind. What fun they had had! No one had ever amused him quite as much as Thomas. What a fool the man was! If only he had been ready to do what the King wished, their friendship would have gone on and on to enrich both their lives.

He sent his envoys to the court of France with gifts for Louis and congratulations, which Louis knew were false, on the birth of his son.

They had come, they said, to speak of the late Archbishop of Canterbury.

Louis with surprising spirit answered that he had not known that Thomas Becket was the late Archbishop of Canterbury. ‘I am a King even as the King of England is,’ he went on, ‘yet I have not the power to depose the least of my clerics.’

They realised then that Louis was not going to be helpful and that Thomas had indeed found a sanctuary with him.

They asked him if he would write to the Pope putting the King of England’s grievances to him. They reminded him that during the conflict between England and France the Archbishop had worked assiduously against France.

‘It was his duty,’ said Louis. ‘Had he been my subject he would have worked so for me.’

There was nothing Henry could do now to prevent the case of Thomas Becket being put before the Pope, and he made sure that his side of the case should be well represented; that old enemy of Thomas’s, Roger, Archbishop of York, was among his emissaries.

The friends Thomas could send, headed by Herbert, were humble in comparison; they had no rich gifts to bring to the Pope. The Pope in his Papal Court at Sens received them with affection however and was deeply moved when he heard of the suffering of Thomas Becket.

‘He is alive still,’ he said. ‘Then I rejoice. He can still, while in the flesh, claim the privilege of martyrdom.’

The next day the Pope called a meeting and the King’s embassy and those who came from Thomas were present.

Carefully the Pope listened to both sides of the story and later sent for Thomas.

When he was received by the Pope and his cardinals, Thomas showed them the constitutions he had brought from Clarendon. The Pope read them with horror and Thomas confessed his sin in that he had promised to obey the King and that only when he had been called to make the promise in public had he realised that the King had no intention of keeping his word. After that he had determined to stand out against Henry no matter what happened.

‘Your fault was great,’ said the Pope, ‘but you have done your best to atone for it. You have fallen from grace, but my son, you have risen stronger than you were before. I will not give you a penance. You have already expiated your sin in all that you have suffered.’

Thomas was determined that they should know the complete truth.

‘Much evil has fallen on the Church on my account,’ he said. ‘I was thrust into my post by the King’s favour, by the design of men, not God. I give into your hands, Holy Father, the burden which I no longer have the strength to bear.’

He tried to put the archiepiscopal ring into the Pope’s hands, but the Pope would not take it.

‘Your work for the Holy Church has atoned for all that has happened to you,’ he said. ‘You will receive the See of Canterbury fresh from my hands. Rest assured that we here shall maintain you in your cause because it is the Church’s cause. You should retire, my son, to some refuge where you can meditate and regain your strength. I will send you to a monastery where you must learn to subdue the flesh. You have lived in great comfort and luxury and I wish you to learn to live with privation and poverty.’

Thomas declared his burning desire to do so and it was arranged that he should for a while live at the Cistercian monastery of Pontigny which was in Burgundy.

Eleanor was once more pregnant and a few days after Christmas in the year 1166 another son was born to her. They called him John.

Soon after the birth of this son Eleanor began to wonder why the King’s visits to Woodstock always raised his spirits. There was a lilt in his voice when he mentioned the place.

What, she asked herself, was so special about Woodstock? A pleasant enough place it was true, but the King had many pleasant castles and palaces. She determined to find out.

When Henry was at Woodstock she joined him there and she noticed that he disappeared for long spells at a time, and that when she asked any of her servants where he might be, she could get no satisfactory answer.

She decided she would watch him very closely herself and all the time they were at Woodstock she did this. One afternoon she was rewarded for her diligence. Looking from her window she saw the King emerging from the palace, and hastening from her room she left by a door other than the one which he had used, and so before he had gone very far she came face to face with him.

‘A pleasant day,’ she said, ‘on which to take a walk.’

‘Oh yes, indeed,’ he answered somewhat shiftily she thought, and was about to say that she would accompany him when she noticed attached to his spur a ball of silk.

She was about to ask him how he had come by this when she changed her mind.

She said that she was going into the palace and would see him later. He seemed relieved and kissed her hand and as she passed him facing towards the palace she contrived to bend swiftly and pick up the ball of silk.

He passed on and she saw to her amazement that a piece of the silk was still caught in his spur and that the ball unravelled as he went.

She was very amused because if she could follow the King at some distance she would know exactly which turn he had taken in the maze of trees by following the thread.

It was an amusing incident and if he discovered her they would laugh about her shadowing him through the maze of trees.

Then it suddenly occurred to her. He had been visiting someone earlier. It must be a woman. From whom else should he have picked up a ball of silk.

A sudden anger filled her. Another light of love. He should not have them so near the royal palaces. She would tell him so if she discovered who his new mistress was.

He was deep in the thicket, and still he was going purposefully on. She realised suddenly that the end attached to his spur had come off and he was no longer leading her. Carefully she let the end of her silk fall to the ground and followed the trail it had left. There was no sign of Henry.

She would leave the silk where it lay and retrace her steps to the Palace. When the opportunity arose she would explore the maze and see if she could discover where Henry had gone.

She was very thoughtful when he returned to the palace for there was about him a look of contentment which she had noticed before.

The next day Henry was called away to Westminster and she declared her intention of staying behind at Woodstock for a while. Immediately she decided to explore the maze. This she did and found that the thread of silk was still there. She followed it through the paths so that she knew she was going the way the King had gone. Then the silk stopped but she could see that the trees were thinning.

It did not take her long to find the dwelling-house.

It was beautiful - a miniature palace. In the garden sat a woman; she was embroidering and in a little basket beside her lay balls of silk of the same size and colour as that which had attached itself to the King’s spur.

Two young boys were playing a ball game on the grass and every now and then the woman would look at them.

There was something about the appearance of those boys which made Eleanor tremble with anger.

The woman suddenly seemed to be aware that she was watched for she looked up and encountered the intent eyes of the Queen fixed on her. She rose to her feet. Her embroidery fell to the floor. The two boys stopped playing and watched.

Eleanor went to the woman and said:

‘Who are you?’

The woman answered: ‘Should I not ask that of you who come to my house?’

‘Ask if you will. I am the Queen.’

The woman turned pale. She stepped back a pace or two and glanced furtively to right and left as if looking for a way of escape.

Eleanor took her by the arm. ‘You had better tell me,’ she said.

‘I am Rosamund Clifford.’

The elder of the boys came up and said in a high-pitched voice: ‘Don’t hurt my mother, please.’

‘You are the King’s mistress,’ said Eleanor.

Rosamund answered, ‘Please … not before the children.’ Then she turned to the boys and said: ‘Go into the house.’

‘Mother, we cannot leave you with this woman.’

Eleanor burst out laughing. ‘I am your Queen. You must obey me. Go into the house. I have something to say to your mother.’

‘Yes, go,’ said Rosamund.

They went and the two women faced each other.

‘How long has it been going on?’ demanded Eleanor.

‘For … for some time.’

‘And both of those boys are his?’

Rosamund nodded.

‘I will kill him,’ said Eleanor. ‘I will kill you both. So it was to see you … and it has been going on for years, and that is why he comes so much to Woodstock.’ She took Rosamund by the shoulders and shook her. ‘You insignificant creature. What does he see in you? Is it simply that you do his bidding? You would never say no to him, never disagree, never be anything but what he wanted!’ She continued to shake Rosamund. ‘You little fool. How long do you think it will last …’

She stopped. It had lasted for years. There might be other women but he kept Rosamund. He would not have kept Eleanor if it had not been necessary for him to do so. She was jealous; she was furiously jealous of this pink and white beauty, mild as milk and sweet as honey.

‘Do not think that I shall allow this to go on,’ she said.

‘The King wills it,’ answered Rosamund with a show of spirit.

‘And I will that it should end.’

‘I have told him that it should never have been …’

‘And yet when he comes here you receive him warmly. You cannot wait to take him to your bed. I know your kind. Do not think you deceive me. And he has got two boys on you has he not! And promised you all kinds of honours for them I’ll swear! You shall say goodbye to him for you will not see him more, I promise you.’

‘You have spoken to the King?’

‘Not yet. He knows not that I have discovered you. He is careful to hide you here, is he not? Why? Because he is afraid his wife will discover you.’

‘He thought it wiser for me to remain in seclusion …’

‘I’ll warrant he did. But I found you. One of your silly little balls of silk led me here. But I have found you now … and this will be the end, I tell you. I’ll not allow it. And what will become, of you, think you, when the King has tired of you? ‘Twere better then that you had never been born. Why did you lose your virtue to such a man? You should have married as good women do and brought children to your lawful husband. Now what will become of you? The best thing you can do is throw yourself down from the tower of your house. Why don’t you do that?’

Rosamund stared at her in horror.

‘Yes. I wish to see you do it now.’

‘I could not.’

‘It is best for you. You are a harlot. It is better you were dead. I will bring you poison and you shall drink it. Or I will bring you a dagger and you can pierce your heart with it.’

Rosamund thought the Queen was mad. There was such a wildness in her eyes.

‘Wait … wait,’ begged Rosamund. ‘Wait until the King returns. If you killed me he would never forgive you.’

‘Do you think I want his forgiveness! He is a hard man. A selfish man. A man who will have his way. Go into your house. Think of your sins. I should repent if I were you, and the only way you can receive forgiveness is to go and sin no more. Tomorrow I will come again and by then you will have decided what you are going to do. Tonight say your prayers, ask forgiveness for your harlotry, and tomorrow be prepared to die.’

Eleanor threw Rosamund from her and ran back through the maze of trees. A madness was on her.

She hated him. Why should she care so fiercely that he had deceived her? Why did it matter so much? It mattered because this was the woman he wanted. She knew how gladly he would have set Eleanor aside for her.

Back at the palace she shut herself into her bedchamber. She lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling.

She hated Henry and she loved him.

I am ageing and she is young, she thought. Once he cared for me, but now he sees me as an old woman. Did they not shake their heads over us because I am nearly twelve years older than he is? When we were younger it did not seem to matter. I had so much to offer. Would he have wanted me if it were not for Aquitaine? Would he? As much as he now wanted Rosamund Clifford?

For all those years he had gone to her. She could tell the age of the liaison by the age of the boys. And he went to see them and was happy there - happier than he was in his royal palaces!

I will kill her, she thought. I will take to her a phial of poison and force her to drink it. When he comes to see her he will find a corpse.

She shall not live to mock me.

Fortunately for Rosamund Henry returned to Woodstock the next day. Eleanor came to him while he was preparing to leave, as she knew now, for that little house in which he had installed his mistress.

‘So you came back early. Were you so eager to make love to Rosamund Clifford?’

He stopped short to stare at her. Caught! she thought with grim satisfaction. She saw the redness come into his eyes. He was now going to fly into one of his notorious tempers because she had found him out.

‘What know you of Rosamund Clifford?’ he asked.

‘Oh, not as much as you, I admit. But I did discover the lady’s bower.’

‘Who took you there?’

‘You, my lord, with your little skein of silk.’

‘What nonsense is this!’

‘No nonsense. The pretty lady’s skein of silk was attached to your spur. I found it and trailed you there … or almost. Yesterday I paid a call on her. She did not welcome me as eagerly as she must welcome you.’

‘You went there!’

‘What a haven! And two fine boys too! Henry, what a man you are for getting boys on harlots! I declare your reputation will soon be that of your grandfather and mine.’

‘So you have discovered this.’

‘Yes, indeed. You are found out.’

‘Know this. I will do as I will.’

‘We all know that, my King. But while you may do as you will with low-born maidens, you may not with the Queen of England and Duchess of Aquitaine.’

Henry laughed but it was not pleasant laughter.

‘You should know me well enough by now to realise that I will not be told what I must do by those two.’

‘Neither of them will tolerate a mistress here in the palace even though she is hidden in a maze. You fool, Henry, did you think you could keep the woman’s existence a secret from me for ever?’

‘I did not and I care not.’

‘Yet you did not wish me to know.’

‘I thought it kinder to you not to know.’

‘Do you think I want your kindness ? Do you think I shall fret because you have a mistress or two?’

‘Nay, you are too wise. You know full well that if I want a woman I will have her.’

‘How long has this one been your mistress?’

‘Suffice it that she is.’

‘You have a special fondness for this one, eh?’

‘I have.’

‘She is as a wife to you, is she?’

‘She is.’

‘And you would to God she were.’

He looked at her steadily. ‘I would to God she were.’

She struck at him; he caught her hand and threw her from him.

‘You she-wolf,’ he said.

‘And you are the lion. Henry the Lion, King of the Forest. But forget not the she-wolf has her fangs.’

‘If she dares show them to me or mine they will be torn from her. Doubt that not. And know this. If you harm Rosamund Clifford I will kill you.’

‘All Aquitaine would revolt against you if you dared.’

‘Do I care for Aquitaine? I will subdue Aquitaine as I have all my territories. Do you forget that I am the King and master of you all … every one of you. Don’t be a fool, Eleanor. You are the Queen. Does that not suffice? You have borne my heirs. We have a nursery full of them. Four fine boys. Henry will be King to follow me - your son. Is that not enough?’

‘No. It is not enough. I will not have you sport with your mistress a stone’s throw from the palace. She must go. Get rid of her.’

‘I’d liefer get rid of you.’

‘If you go back to that woman I never want to share your bed again.’

‘So be it,’ he said. ‘You are no longer young. There are others who please me far more.’

She struck out at him as she had done before but he seized her and threw her on to the bed. In the old days there would have been a rising of sexual passion on such occasions. Not now. There was now hatred for her. It was clear to her that the two youngest children, Joanna and John, had come into being through custom or the need of a king to get as many children as he could to ensure the succession.

Suddenly she felt defeated. She was an ageing woman. She had lived an adventurous life; she had had her lovers, but that was over now.

She still had power though. She was still ruler of Aquitaine. In that fair land her troubadours still sang to her beauty.

She had a great desire then to be there.

‘I am going to Aquitaine,’ she said.

‘Your people are ever glad to have you with them,’ answered the King. ‘It is well that you should go. They grow restive when their Duchess is not among them.’

‘I will take Richard with me and young Marguerite.’

Her anger had left her. He would be free to dally with Rosamund Clifford. Perhaps now he need not keep her in her secret house - unless the lady was coy.

Eleanor had discovered the secret of Woodstock and it had brought to her some understanding of herself. The King was tired of her. He no longer loved her. She was merely the mother of his children and the ruler of Aquitaine. Let her go. He would be free of her. Let him alone that he might give himself to those two passions which consumed him - his love for Rosamund Clifford and his battle with Thomas Becket.

As she knew she would, Eleanor found her children at their books. Matilda, the eldest daughter, was a year older than Richard who with his fair good looks and elegant figure was her favourite. It was not only his charm and good looks which made him so, but the fact that his father seemed to dislike him. Why? Because Richard more than the others resented the intrusion into their circle of the bastard Geoffrey - and Henry knew that more than anything on earth Eleanor loved this son.

She loved his brother Geoffrey too, and when she came into their quarters and called his name there was never any confusion because of that other. She never spoke to him if she could help it and if she was ever obliged to she never looked at him when she spoke and never called him by a name.

Richard called him Geoffrey the Bastard. There had been many a fight between them. She suspected that the sly little bastard complained to his father about the unkindness of Richard.

Her son Geoffrey was beautiful. Strangely enough he had inherited the looks of his grandfather of the same name, Geoffrey of Anjou who had been known as Geoffrey the Fair. There was little Eleanor, too young as yet to show much character, adoring Richard because he was by his very nature the leader.

Joanna and baby John were too young to join the schoolroom but John was already showing signs of having inherited the famous Angevin temper. Rarely, she was sure, had a child screamed so much when he was displeased as Master John.

As she watched them in those few seconds before they were aware of her, she was overwhelmed by her emotions. She had always been fond of children. Even her two daughters by Louis had been important to her during their early life. It was difficult for a Queen who had so many calls upon her time to be as much with her children as a humbler mother might have been - and in the days of her marriage to Louis she had craved adventure because she had been so bored with her marriage.

She had never been bored with Henry. Now that she hated him, for she was sure she did, he could still arouse in her an emotion which was far from boredom. She was of a nature to prefer hatred to ennui.

Richard looked up and saw her. The pleasure in his eyes compensated her for the King’s contempt of her. Henry might find her ageing, no longer an inspiration to love, but Richard loved her with a love which did not depend on years. He was her beloved son; there was an understanding between them. They were allies against the King, for Richard was fully aware that for some reason his father did not like him.

Richard rose from the table and ran to her. He knelt and kissed her hands.

‘Mother,’ he said, raising his beautiful eyes to hers.

‘My dearest boy,’ she answered, and her son Geoffrey was already clamouring for attention.

She thought: They love me. They truly love me. Is it like this when the King comes to their schoolroom?

Geoffrey the Bastard stood up and bowed stiffly. She looked past him as though she were unaware of his existence.

Another child had come into the room. This was Marguerite, the little French Princess, who was married to Henry and was now being brought up in the royal household.

Marguerite curtseyed to the Queen and greeted her in her pretty accent.

Eleanor drew them all about her and asked questions about their lessons. They answered eagerly, but Richard was the cleverest she noticed with satisfaction.

‘We are going to Aquitaine,’ she said. ‘That is my own country.’

‘Are we all going?’ asked Richard.

‘As yet I am unsure, but one thing I know. You, my son, will go with me.’

Richard laughed aloud to show his pleasure.

‘That pleases you, my boy?’ she asked ruffling his fair curly hair.

He nodded. ‘But if they had not let me go …’ They meant his father. ‘… I should have followed you.’

‘How would you have done that?’

‘I would have ridden to the sea and got into the boat and then I would have ridden on to Aquitaine.’

‘You will be an adventurer, my son.’

Then she told them about Aquitaine and how the troubadours came to the court and sang beautiful songs, for Aquitaine was the home of the troubadours.

‘Listen, Marguerite,’ commanded Richard. ‘Does not my mother tell beautiful stories? Is she not better than your old Becket?’

‘What is this talk of Becket?’ asked the Queen.

‘Marguerite always talks of him. She says that she and Henry cried when he went. Marguerite loved him … so did Henry. They said they loved him better than anyone, better than our father … better than you … That was wicked wasn’t it, my lady, for he is a wicked man.’

‘You listen to gossip,’ said the Queen. ‘You will not mention this man. He was wicked because he offended the King. That is an end of him.’

‘Is he dead?’ asked Richard, at which Marguerite burst into tears.

‘He is not dead,’ said the Queen to pacify Marguerite. ‘But he is not to be spoken of. Now I will sing you a song from Aquitaine and you will understand then how happy we shall be there.’

And there with Richard leaning against her knee and Geoffrey looking at her with wondering eyes, and Matilda and Marguerite sitting on their small stools at her feet, she thought, Here is my future, in these beautiful sons and particularly Richard. What care I for you, Henry Plantagenet, when I have my sons? I will bind them to me and they shall be truly mine. They will hate those who do not treat me well - even though that be you, King Henry.

When Eleanor left England the King was relieved. He decided now that he would live openly with Rosamund and brought her out of seclusion. She was a great solace to him but he was a worried man. He thought constantly of Thomas Becket, and try as he might he could not get the man out of his mind. Thomas would be living now in poverty in his monastery. Thomas who had loved luxury and needed comforts. Henry remembered how cold Thomas had been when the wind blew and how he had laughed at him for his weakness. But Thomas was by no means weak. He had a strong spirit and was of the stuff that martyrs are made.

There was not room for us both in England, thought Henry.

He could not long enjoy his solitude in England, peaceful as everything was there. Fresh trouble had broken out in Brittany which meant crossing the seas again. He said a fond farewell to Rosamund and left.

‘The fate of all our kings, since my ancestor William the Conqueror took this land and added it to his estates of Normandy,’ he mused.

In September news came to him that his mother, still known as the Empress Matilda, was grievously sick at Rouen; and before he could get to her side she was dead.

That saddened him. There had been affection between them, and she had loved him as dearly as she was capable of loving anyone. Now that she was dead he thought of all she had done for him; how, when she had known that the English crown could not be hers she had schemed for it to be his. He had been her favourite. His brothers - now both dead - had been nowhere with her.

In a way she reminded him of Eleanor - both strong women, both brought up with the idea that they would be rulers. It was a mistake to bring up women so. Matilda’s married life had been stormy from the start. At least he and Eleanor had started by loving each other.

As mothers he compared the two women. Eleanor seemed to be developing an obsession concerning that young cub Richard. And I never took to him - mine though he undoubtedly is. He’s his mother’s boy. Ready to defend her against any - including me. A fine sportsman. It did a man good to look at such a boy and know he was his son. But he could not like him - not as he could young Geoffrey, the whore’s son. Strange, he had begun by making much of the boy because Eleanor hated to have him in her nurseries, and it had grown from that. And Henry, his first-born since they had lost William, Henry was a fine boy. Charming and handsome. A son to be proud of. There was an estrangement between them now for the boy had been put under the tutelage of Becket, and the man had somehow weaned him from his natural affections and taken them himself. Thus when there had been a quarrel between Becket and the King, the boy would take the side of his tutor rather than his father.

Becket. It all came back to Becket.

The King had been thinking about his eldest son and some time before it had occurred to him that if young Henry were crowned King of England during his father’s lifetime there could be no doubt of the succession.

Some of his ministers thought that it would be unwise to have two crowned kings.

‘My own son!’ cried Henry. ‘What should I fear from him?’

True, young Henry was but a boy, but that would not always be so.

The more he thought of the idea the more he liked it. It would bind young Henry to him. Surely he would be grateful to a father who had done so much for him. Surely that would wean his allegiance from Becket.

Then again his ministers reminded him, it was a law that a king must be crowned by the Archbishop of Canterbury, and as the Archbishop was in exile who could perform this important ceremony?

There was Roger, Archbishop of York and the King’s servant. But the Archbishop of York was not the Primate, though the king had done everything in his power to make him so.

In the privacy of his apartments he thought: What if I made my peace with Thomas? Then he could come back and crown young Henry. He had to admit that he wanted Thomas back. He wanted to renew the fight. He couldn’t help it. The man had been close to him. Young Henry mourned for Thomas and so in a way did his father.

Fortunately for Henry, Pope Alexander was a man of devious ways and when such a man was in difficulties, as Alexander undoubtedly was, it was not an insuperable task to make him agree to something which was outside his rights.

In a weak moment Alexander agreed that the coronation of young Henry should be performed by Roger, Archbishop of York.

Knowing that having been forced by Henry to make such a concession Alexander would immediately attempt to rescind it, Henry put preparations for the coronation into progress.

He sent word to Eleanor that Henry, who had joined her and the other children in Aquitaine, was to be brought to Caen with his wife, young Marguerite, and wait there until he sent for him.

Eleanor had written to the King telling him that Marguerite had declared that the coronation could be no coronation unless it was performed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, and this so angered the King that when he sent for his son he commanded that he come alone. If Marguerite thought she must be crowned by her beloved Becket she should have no coronation at all.

Meanwhile messengers had arrived from the Pope who, afraid of what he had done, sent letters to cancel his previous promise.

Henry took the letters and promptly burned them. He gave the impression that he had not received them. He had the ports watched and all travellers searched so anxious was he that no edict should reach his bishops from the Pope. One however did get through. This was a nun who had been sent by Thomas and she carried a letter to Roger of York.

She arrived and found her way to Roger on the day before that fixed for the coronation. He read it. Thomas forbade him! The Pope forbade him! Roger had come to his present position through obeying the King, not Thomas and the Pope.

The day dawned and young Henry, aged sixteen and reckoned to be the most handsome prince in the world, was crowned by Roger de Pont l’Eveque as King of England.

The King watched with complacence.

He had yet again proved that he could do without an Archbishop of Canterbury, and he had secured the succession - so he believed.

He himself was thirty-seven years of age and constantly engaged in battle as he was he might meet his death at any time.

All was well. England would have a king to follow him, if by mischance he were to meet his end.

Chapter XV TRAITOR’S MEADOW

There was one who was not pleased by the coronation and that was the King of France. It was the custom for kings of France to have their eldest sons crowned before their deaths and so make a new king who could step right on to the throne when the old man died. But what of his daughter? Was she not the wife of young Henry? Why was she not crowned?

Louis then began to make attacks on the Vexin for he said that if Henry did not regard her as young Henry’s wife and queen, he saw no reason why he should have her dowry.

Henry decided that it was easier to crown Marguerite and make peace with Louis than to stand out against the crowning and have to make war. One thing he could not do was lose the Vexin.

While he was in France the Archbishop of Rouen visited him, and the reason for his visit was to tell him that the Pope wished him to make his peace with Thomas Becket. It was an impossible situation. For several years England’s Archbishop had been in exile and this displeased the Pope. Becket would be happy to return to his post. It was for the King to invite him to. If he did not the Pope had hinted that he would have no alternative but to excommunicate the King of England.

Henry pretended to consider the matter. To see Thomas again! He had to admit that the idea was not displeasing. On the contrary it filled him with an excitement he could not understand.

He was in excellent spirits when he met Louis to take leave from him before returning to England.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘that thief of yours shall have his peace and a good one too.’

‘By the saints of France, what thief pray?’ asked Louis.

‘That Archbishop of Canterbury of ours,’ answered Henry.

‘I wish he were ours as well as yours,’ replied the King of France. ‘You will please God and man if you make a good peace with him, and I shall be ever more grateful to you.’

It was dawn and the meeting was to take place in a green field which was called Traitor’s Meadow.

The King of France, although he was stationed near by, had declared that he would not be present at the meeting for he realised that it would be an emotional encounter.

Henry surrounded by a few of his knights rode ahead of his party into the meadow, and there he waited until he saw approaching from the opposite direction the well-known figure and two of his friends riding on either side of him.

Oh God, thought Henry, is this he? He who used to look so fine on his horse in his magnificent cloak lined with fur. The years have ill-used him.

He spurred his horse that he might ride ahead and greet his old friend.

Thomas did the same and in that field they faced each other.

‘Thomas,’ said Henry, his voice shaken with emotion.

‘My lord King.’

Henry dismounted and Thomas did the same. Then the King held out his arms and they embraced.

‘Thomas, it has been so long since we met.’

‘It is five years,’ replied Thomas. ‘A long time for a man to be away from his home.’

‘I have thought of you often and the days we used to spend together. I doubt I ever laughed as much as I did with you. Why did you plague me so? Why could you not have been as I wished?’

‘Because I was your Archbishop, my lord, and I owed my allegiance first to God and then to you.’

‘I wanted you to have the highest honour. You knew that.’

‘It was an honour that should have come to me through my service to God, not through your favour.’

‘By God’s eyes, what troubles we have made for ourselves! My son Henry talks of you fondly. You bewitched him, Thomas.’

‘I am glad that he did not lose his love for me.’

‘Nay. ‘Tis hard to do that. You will come back to England, Thomas. Canterbury has been too long without its Archbishop. Your lands shall be restored to you.’

Thomas smiled but sadly. He knew Henry so well. How often in the past had his emotion extracted promises from him which in cooler moments he had not kept. Yet it was pleasant to be with this man, this Henry, for had they not loved each other well?

‘I have often thought,’ said the King, ‘that I would take the cross to the Holy Land. If I did, Thomas, I would leave my son Henry in your care.’

‘He is almost a man now with a will of his own.’

‘Yet he would be guided by you and this would I do if I were to leave on a crusade.’

Leave on a crusade! Leave England! Leave Normandy, Anjou, Aquitaine! These were the meaning of life to him. He would never leave them. But he liked to dream. He wished to show Thomas that he loved him, so he let himself indulge in this fancy.

‘I could not undertake a secular office,’ said Thomas. ‘But if you so desired I would give my advice to the young King.’

‘Thomas, you shall return. We will forget our differences. Come back to us soon.’

‘My lord is good,’ said Thomas. ‘There are certain bishops who have offended against the Church. None but the Archbishop of Canterbury should have crowned the young King. Those churchmen who agreed to this should be called to task for doing so.’

The King’s affability was a little strained at this.

‘I believed that as King of England I was entitled to have my son crowned wherever and by whomsoever I wished. You will remember how my grandfather and great-grandfather were crowned.’

‘My lord, when the Conqueror was crowned by Aldred of York the throne of Canterbury was virtually vacant. Stigand had not at that time received the pall from a legitimate Pope. As for your grandfather Henry I, when he was crowned Anselm the Archbishop was in exile. The Bishop of Hereford crowned him as Anselm’s representative and as soon as Anselm returned he was requested to perform a new coronation.’

”Tis true,’ said Henry. ‘And you shall perform a coronation for my son and this time his wife shall be with him for the King of France was sorely vexed because his daughter was not crowned with Henry.’

Thomas knelt then at the King’s feet; Henry leaned forward and lifted him. Then he embraced him. This was indeed a reconciliation.

Chapter XVI MURDER

Six years before he had escaped from the town of Sandwich and now he came back to it. His servants had set up the cross of Canterbury on the prow and as the little boat came in the people came down to the shore to welcome him. Many of them waded in the water battling for the honour of helping him ashore. On that strand many knelt and asked for his blesssing.

One man shouted: ‘Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.’ And some of them shouted: ‘Hosanna.’

As he took the road to Canterbury people fell in behind him. They cried out: ‘He is back among us. God has blessed us and given him back to us.’

In the city of Canterbury itself they set all the bells ringing; people dressed themselves in their finest garments; they filled the streets; they cried to each other that all was well with Canterbury for Thomas Becket was back.

Thomas walked into the cathedral. The joy of being in his own church was unsurpassed. He sat on the throne and one by one his monks came to receive the kiss of peace and the people who had crowded into the cathedral looked on with awe.

Some whispered to the others: ‘All is well now. He is back.’

There were many who were deeply disturbed by his return; those who had helped to destroy him, those who had taken part in the coronation of young Henry, those who had believed their ambitions would be furthered if he were out of the way. And chief of these was Roger, Archbishop of York.

‘How long will he last?’ he asked his friends. ‘Has he not laid strictures on us because we officiated at the ceremony of coronation. I have the King behind me. I will empty my coffers … I will spend eight - nay ten thousand pounds - to put down this man. Let us to Normandy where the King is and there we will tell him of how Thomas Becket conducts himself as soon as he has returned to England.’

Smarting under the threat of excommunication the bishops agreed with him and they set out for Normandy.

Thomas meanwhile was discovering that the King had not kept his promise to return his estates, and had even taken revenge on his family. His sisters had been forced to go into exile. Mary who had become a nun had gone to a French convent, and Matilda and her family had also gone to France where the Abbot of Clairmarais had given them refuge.

How deep had Henry’s feeling been? Had he really meant his promise of friendship?

Roger of York was a powerful man and he had been Thomas’s enemy from the days when they had been together in Theobald’s household. He now knew that Thomas’s rise could only be his fall, and he had meant what he said when he had boasted that he would spend his fortune on ruining him.

He was an influence in the Church; he had won the King’s favour by showing him that he had no scruples and was bent on reaching his ambition which was to be head of the Church in England.

Before he left for Normandy he went to Woodstock to see the young Henry.

Henry was proud of his crown and his attitude had changed since his coronation. He was apt to be critical of his father and wise men said that it was folly for one king to crown his successor while he still lived. The boy king was undoubtedly a little arrogant; he was surrounded by sycophants, and when Roger came with that unctuous manner which he knew so well how to use and flattered the young boy, he could influence him.

‘Becket is on his way to see you, I doubt not,’ he told him, ‘I’ll warrant you will have little time for the old hypocrite.’

Henry was puzzled. ‘I liked him well,’ he said. ‘He tutored me, you know.’

‘Ah, my lord. That was when you were a young boy and could be easily deceived. How quickly you learned to see the truth. I’ll swear that you see this more quickly even than your noble father.’

‘It may be so,’ said Henry solemnly.

‘I said to my bishops, “Our lord, the young King, will see right through the old fellow when he comes trying to wheedle something out of him.”’

‘Why should he wheedle?’

‘Because, dear lord, you are who you are: our King.’

Henry smiled. ‘I could not help but like the fellow …’

‘Until you saw that he was a troublemaker. You saw it ere your father did, I warrant.’

Henry was silent. He supposed that Thomas was a troublemaker. His father and the Archbishop had quarrelled.

‘You know he has excommunicated those of us who took part in your coronation?’

‘Why so?’

‘Because he did not believe you should be crowned.’

‘And why should he presume to do that?’

‘Because he is presumption. He was against the coronation. There should be one king at a time, he says.’

‘Does he indeed! Then he will have to be taught otherwise.’

‘I knew you would think that, my lord. He has insulted you by his protests against the coronation. I’ll warrant you’ll not lose an opportunity of insulting him.’

Henry was thoughtful.

Thomas was travelling to Woodstock. What pleasure it would give him to embrace his pupil. He would see young Marguerite too. He had loved the pair of them dearly; and they had been eager to learn from him.

First he would pass through London and when he reached that city, his reception was as heartening as that which he had received in Canterbury.

The Bishop of Winchester received him in his Palace of Southwark and caused the bells to be rung for he was as good a friend as Roger of York was bad an enemy.

‘It warms my heart to see you back,’ he said. ‘And see what a welcome the people of London give you. You will overcome your enemies.’

When Thomas went into the streets people came to him and knelt on the cobbles for his blessing, but there was one distressing incident when a mad woman who called herself a prophetess ran amok through the crowd. ‘Beware of the knife, Archbishop,’ she kept crying. ‘Beware of the knife.’

They hustled her away and Thomas went on his progress. But that night his dreams were disturbed and in them he heard the old woman’s cry: ‘Beware of the knife.’

When he approached Woodstock, his good friend Abbot Simon of Saint Albans, who had travelled from his monastery to greet the Archbishop, said that he would go as messenger to the young King and tell him of the approach of his old friend and counsellor.

It saddened him when Simon returned with the news that the young King refused to see him, and that he had been told by one of Henry’s knights that there would be no welcome for Thomas Becket at Woodstock.

So he travelled back to Canterbury.

It was Christmas time and on Christmas Day at high Mass his text was ‘On earth peace to men of good will.’

He was full of foreboding.

Young Henry had been turned against him, and how could he know what was in the mind of his father?

Henry was at Bayeux when Roger of York and some of the excommunicated bishops arrived to see him.

The first thing he asked was: ‘How fares the Archbishop of Canterbury?’

‘As he always did, my lord,’ said Roger of York. ‘He is roaming the country and seeking to turn many of your subjects against you.’

‘How has he done that?’ demanded the King.

‘He has only to appear and the people shout for him. He poses as the martyr who has suffered greatly because of the King’s ill will.’

‘And his ill will towards me? What of that?’

‘He does not mention that, my lord. He poses as a saint. Many say he is. The people follow him wherever he goes. They kneel before him and they think that if he gives them his blessing their sins are forgiven them and they are sure of their place in Heaven. He declares the young King is no king for he should never have been crowned.’

‘He has preached this?’

‘Assuredly so, my lord. He has cursed all those who took part in the coronation. He will excommunicate them, he says.’

‘Then he will excommunicate me,’ said the King.

‘He has said all, my lord, and that would assuredly include you. He gathers multitudes wherever he goes. He is marching through England calling on the people to turn out the young King.’

‘By God’s eyes,’ said the King, ‘he has deceived me again. He is against me and mine.’

The rage was beginning to show in his eyes; he tore at his hair and pulled at the stuff of his doublet.

He shouted to Roger and his companions: ‘What would you have me do, eh? How would you have me act?’

‘It is not for us to advise you, my lord,’ answered Roger. ‘That is for your barons, but as long as Thomas Becket lives you will not have good days, nor a peaceful kingdom and quiet times.’

Henry clenched his fists and those standing near him took a pace backwards for they could see that his wrath would burst forth at any moment and would be terrible.

‘A fellow who has eaten my bread has lifted up his heel against me. A fellow who first broke into my court on a lame horse with a cloak for a saddle swaggers on my throne while you, the companions of my fortunes, look on.’

He glared at the company and his gaze rested on a certain knight named Reginald FitzUrse. The man trembled before the wrath of the King.

‘A curse upon all the false varlets I have maintained!’ spat out Henry. ‘They have left me long exposed to the insolence of this low-born cleric and have not attempted to relieve me of him.’

He strode angrily to the door, and eagerly they fell back to let him pass.

When he had gone there was a deep silence in the room.

Reginald FitzUrse, a man of some ambition, asked three of his friends to come to his chamber where they might talk in secret. These three were William de Tracy, Hugh de Morville and Richard Brito.

When they were there and he was sure of secrecy, FitzUrse said: ‘It was a command from the King. He looked straight at me when he said those words. He is commanding me to kill Thomas Becket.’

‘I believe that to be so,’ replied Hugh de Morville. ‘I believe he would reward well those who rid him of the troublesome priest.’

‘I have asked you here that we might share this honour of doing service to the King. He will not forget us, depend upon it.’

‘The Archbishop is at Canterbury surrounded by his friends.’

‘That should not deter us.’

‘What should we do then?’

‘First we go to Canterbury and there we will make our plans.’

‘Then,’ said Richard Brito, ‘why do we not set out without delay?’

‘We will leave this night for Canterbury,’ answered Reginald FitzUrse.

Within a few hours they were on their way to the coast to take ship for England.

On the 28th of December the four knights came to Saltwood Castle and there they rested. They had collected a party of men known to be enemies of the Archbishop, those who thought they could profit by pleasing the King, and there they conferred together. They would incite the people to march on the Archbishop’s palace.

They soon discovered that this was impossible as the people were fervently on the side of the Archbishop and nowhere more than in his own district.

They therefore marched on alone.

Thomas was in the refectory talking with some of the monks and clerics as was his custom. They had been trying to urge him to escape, for they were well aware that the King’s knights were in the neighbourhood endeavouring to inflame the people against him.

He had awakened that morning with a presentiment of disaster and had said that he believed his end was very near.

Those who loved him implored him to leave. They were but six miles or so from Sandwich; a boat could be procured. The King of France would offer him hospitality.

‘Nay,’ said Thomas. ‘Not again. I know the time has come and it is God’s will that I stay to meet my fate.’

While they sat there his seneschal came in to announce the arrival of four knights.

They stood before him looking at him insolently. He knew them all by name for they had served him when he had been the Chancellor.

‘God help you,’ said FitzUrse and his voice was exultant.

‘Have you come here to pray for me then?’ asked Thomas.

‘We come with a message from the King. Will you hear it now or in private?’

‘At your pleasure,’ answered Thomas.

‘Nay, at yours.’

Thomas saw that they were all unarmed, yet he read murder in their eyes and he thought: The King has sent them to kill me.

‘It shall be at your pleasure,’ he said, for he had no will to stop their designs. Rather did he welcome them, so certain was he that his martyrdom was at hand.

‘You have offended the King,’ said FitzUrse. ‘You have broken your agreement with him. You have threatened excommunication of the King’s friends and roamed the country rallying people that they might act against the King. Our lord the King commands that you go at once to his young son, King Henry, and swear fealty to him and make atonement for your crimes against our great King, Henry II.’

‘There is no man - saving young Henry’s own father - who loves him more than I. I have none but warm and loyal feelings for him. The welcome given me by my friends has been mistaken for disloyal demonstrations against the King and I am ready to prove this in any court. Any excommunication is decreed by the Pope. As for those who have taken part in the coronation of the King’s son I have no jurisdiction over the Archbishop of York, but if the Bishops of London and Salisbury who shared in that ceremony ask pardon and stand trial for their actions they will be absolved. I have had the King’s leave to punish those who invade my office.’

‘You accuse the King of treachery when you say he allowed you to suspend those who took part in a coronation ordered by himself,’ said FitzUrse.

‘I do not charge the King with treachery, but you know of our agreement.’

‘From whom do you hold your Archbishopric?’ demanded FitzUrse.

‘From God and the Pope.’

‘And not from the King?’

‘By no means. We must render to the King that which is the King’s and to God the things that are God’s.’

The knights were nonplussed and hated him the more for confounding them.

Thomas said softly: ‘You cannot be more ready to strike than I am to suffer. Understand this. I did not return to fly again.’

The knights looked at each other in bewilderment. FitzUrse, the leader, cursed himself for having no weapon at hand and for a moment wondered whether he would snatch the crozier and batter the Archbishop to death with that.

Then he turned and hurried from Thomas’s presence, the others following him.

Thomas’s friends were terrified. They knew that the four knights were bent on murder.

‘I wish to go into the cathedral to pray,’ said Thomas; and it occurred to several of the monks that he had the air of a bridegroom going to his marriage.

He left the palace with a very few of his monks. Terror had invaded the place, and it occurred to Thomas that his enemies would kill him before he could reach the cathedral.

He came in by the north transept and as he did so the four knights appeared at the far end of the cloister. Thomas moved towards the altar and in the gloom was not seen by the knights; but the monks who had accompanied him ran to shelter in various parts of the cathedral. Only one cleric, Edward Grim, remained beside him.

They shouted: ‘Where is the traitor, Becket?’

‘Here,’ cried Thomas. ‘No traitor but a priest of God. If you seek me you have found me. What do you wish of me ?’

So calm was he that Morville and Tracy were suddenly afraid for they knew they were in the presence of a great man.

Tracy called: ‘Fly, or you are a dead man.’

‘I do not fear your swords,’ answered Thomas. ‘I welcome death for the sake of the Lord and the freedom of the Church.’

Aware that the others were wavering, FitzUrse cried: ‘You are our prisoner. You will come with us.’

‘I will not,’ answered Thomas.

FitzUrse stretched out to seize his pall. ‘Do not touch me, pander,’ said the Archbishop.

This enraged FitzUrse who waved his sword over the Archbishop’s head.

Thomas knew that the moment had come. He murmured: ‘Unto Thy hands, oh Lord …’ as FitzUrse shouted: ‘Strike!’

Tracy lifted his sword and the faithful Edward Grim tried to ward off the blow. His arm was severed from his body and he fell fainting to the ground. The sword came down in Thomas’s head and cut off the tonsured part of his crown.

FitzUrse came in and delivered another blow which sent Thomas to his knees. Brito struck out with his sword and Thomas fell dying to the floor.

FitzUrse cried: ‘The deed is done. Let us be off, comrades. This traitor will never rise again.’

His body lay on the stones and Osbert, his chamberlain, came and wept over him. Then he cut off a piece of his surplice and covered his master’s face.

The soldiers were ransacking the palace and the monks were in hiding. It was as though a terrible darkness had fallen over the cathedral; and when it was quiet and the ravagers had gone, and the news of what had happened had spread through the town, people came to the spot where he lay and they wept and knelt and called him, ‘Thomas the Saint and Martyr.’

The monks collected his scattered brains and put them in a basin as holy relics, and they found that beneath his robes he wore a long hair shirt, which was alive with vermin and which must have tormented him sorely.

All night they knelt beside him, and in the morning because they had heard that his enemies were coming to take his body and give it to the dogs, they took him to the crypt and they buried him before the altars of Saint John the Baptist and Saint Augustine the Apostle of England; and from that day it was said miracles were performed at the shrine of Thomas Becket.

Chapter XVII THE KING’S REMORSE

When the news was brought to the King he was filled with remorse and a certain terror.

‘I have done this,’ he said. ‘I am the murderer of Thomas Becket.’

He shut himself in his bedchamber and wished to see no one. There he thought of all they had been to each other in the days of their friendship and how there was no man he loved as he had loved Thomas Becket.

And he had killed him.

They were calling him a martyr. They were calling him a saint. They said that at his shrine miracles were performed. The whole of Christendom was shocked by the murder and the whole of Christendom said: ‘Who has done this wicked deed?’

It was FitzUrse and the others. Nay, it was the King. Had he not cursed them for not ridding himself of the man?

All his life the memory of Thomas Becket would be with him. He might do a public penance but he would never forget.

Thomas lay dead, his brains had been scattered on the stones. And his body they said was inflamed with the bites of the vermin who at his will had infested his hair shirt. Thomas, who had loved silk next to his skin and had hated the cold winds to blow on him! He was dead - killed by his one-time friend.

There was not room for the two of us in England, thought Henry, because I wanted to be supreme ruler not only of State but of Church. And because of this he lies dead and I am to blame. I am the murderer who killed the martyr.

But he was a king; he had his life to lead; his country to govern.

His son Henry, whom he had crowned, he now knew unwisely, was eager to take his place. Thomas had been against the crowning. It was never wise to set up a new king while the old one still reigned.

His wife Eleanor hated him. His son Richard had turned against him.

Where could he go for comfort? To Rosamund? She would give him solace, but he could not talk to her of his troubles. She would never understand them. She would agree with everything he said, and that was not what he wanted.

What was Eleanor doing? How long before she roused his sons against him? He was unhappy. He was afraid, for he was a lonely man and his soul was stained with the blood of one he had loved.