“MY LORD, DO YOU wish to comment on the fate of the Flemings?” Theobald of Bec, archbishop of Canterbury, who presided over this meeting in his well-appointed council chamber at the Bishop’s Palace in London, regarded Henry with an inquiring look.
Henry felt his blood stir. Since last November and the signing of the Treaty of Wallingford, he had been confined in one wretched council chamber after another: Wallingford, Winchester, now the Bishop’s Palace in London where he had arrived with King Stephen two weeks ago. Increasingly frustrated with these endless discussions, it was all he could do to keep his temper on a tight rein.
“The Flemings, you say? Indeed I do, my lord archbishop. Indeed I do! If I had my way all Flemings would be blinded, castrated, and paraded around England in chains.”
“A bit harsh, my lord,” said one of the English barons seated at the table. “After all, the Flemings were hired by King Stephen in time of need and served the realm well.”
“Rape, looting, murder, torture of innocent civilians unable to defend themselves—God’s eyes, this is your idea of serving the realm well?”
The bulk of the magnates and ecclesiastics attending the council shifted uncomfortably in their seats and would not meet Henry’s eyes. In truth, the chamber was so crowded with former enemies that he felt stifled by the air of hostility that seemed to clog his very nostrils. The burnished copper braziers, thick tapestries depicting scenes from the crucifixion, and heavy silver candleholders only added to the suffocating atmosphere.
“My cousin, the earl of Gloucester, was very nearly quartered like a chicken by one of these whoreson Flemings, weren’t you, William?”
William, seated next to him, looked startled. “You have an excellent memory, Cousin.”
“An inheritance from my grandfather, the first Henry, the last rightful king. I pride myself on never forgetting a good turn—or an ill one.” Henry scrutinized each peer. “It passes my understanding that Stephen could even hire such knaves. But then, everything he has done passes my understanding.”
Stephen’s brother, the all-powerful bishop of Winchester, rose to his feet. “It is not very charitable to attack a man behind his back, my lord duke. Today Stephen ails and is not present to defend his actions.”
“How can one defend eighteen years of criminal negligence? It is more than sufficient to make one ill.” Henry met the bishop’s indignant gaze with a grim smile. “Ill unto death I shouldn’t wonder. As God is my judge, I wouldn’t have Stephen’s conscience for all the gold in the Knights Templar coffers. Considering the widespread damage he’s inflicted, I have grave doubts as to whether he is even fit to remain as king.”
The bishop’s voice rose. “My lord, you agreed Stephen should remain king until his death!”
“Did I? God’s eyes, I must have been flown with wine. Or mad. Or both. It’s obvious he is unfit.”
“My lord archbishop,” the bishop said, green eyes blazing. “This is an outrage. King Stephen and Duke Henry have sworn to adopt each other as father and son!”
A moment of shocked stillness followed this exchange. Henry could feel everyone’s horrified gaze upon him, including the two clerks perched on high stools, wax tablets and styli poised in their hands. In the midst of the silence, someone snickered. Henry, baffled by this reaction, could not see from whence it came. Then the nobles all raised their voices at once. Henry winced. The uproar sounded exactly like a pack of angry yelping hounds.
“My lords, my lord bishops, order, order if you please.” The archbishop of Canterbury held up a palsied hand. “By the Mass, are we here to hurl recriminations or forge a workable set of rules that will guide us in restoring peace and plenty to this wounded land?” He sent Henry a reproachful glance. “It behooves us all to remember that every man has the right to face his accuser.”
The magnates quieted. Henry gave a reluctant nod. If it weren’t for the unflagging support of the archbishop of Canterbury, who had championed the Angevin cause for the last five years, he would not be here now. He had no wish to antagonize the worthy Theobald. But at least he’d had his say. Or part of it. Henry let out a deep sigh of irritation. How much longer could he stand this kind of imprisonment? Whether well-appointed, such as this one, or barely furnished, all the chambers he’d been in since November looked alike to him. Walls lined with chests filled with crumbling sheets of parchment. Even the smell—dust, moldering wood, and sealing wax—was the same. Henry’s backside was sore; his patience wearing thin.
“The Flemings, my lord?” the archbishop reiterated with a weary sigh.
“Force them to quit England,” Robert of Leicester said quickly. “Banish them to their native land.”
Henry gave a reluctant nod. Unaccountably there flashed into his mind a picture of a bloody, eyeless head nailed to a gate and Flemish soldiers kicking a youth along London Bridge.
He thought again of that sudden snicker; there had been something obscene and totally uncalled for about the sound. How he wished he could have detected its source.
The monotonous voice of the archbishop droned on and on over points already covered in the proposed treaty.
“… the clergy allowed to enjoy peace and be relieved of all exorbitant demands …” Whether famine, pestilence, fire, flood or war—trust the Church to think of herself first. “…Farms must be supplied with husbandmen …” Who else would they be supplied with, vintners? “… thieves and robbers punished with death, soldiers to exchange their swords for ploughshares.” Henry could just see some ham-fisted sergeant trying to cultivate a field. “… their spears—” The archbishop paused, obviously searching for the right phrase. “Ah—yes, their spears exchanged for—pruning hooks …”
Pruning hooks? God save us! Henry drummed his fingers on the polished oak table. He knew these were vital details in the treaty that would help restore the ravaged land to the condition of prosperity it had enjoyed under his grandfather. But why must it go on so long?
As the days and weeks passed, he had grown more and more impatient with these magnates and bishops who had so ill served their king and country. Throughout the civil war they had changed sides with such dizzying rapidity it was enough to make one’s head spin. One day they supported King Stephen, the next, his mother, the Empress Maud. Who among them could he trust now? In all fairness, Henry knew he could not blame the king alone for the sorry state of the land. And, if he were totally honest with himself, he acknowledged he quite liked Stephen personally. But liking a man did not mean one forgave him his evil deeds. Justice must be served.
Henry’s attention was distracted by the whining voice of a northern baron complaining that the woods adjoining a castle he had recently built were overrun with poachers and the sheriffs did nothing to prosecute them. What safeguards were to be made for unprincipled sheriffs?
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Is this an unlicensed castle you built? Without the king’s leave?”
The man turned red as a beetroot, obviously wishing he had kept silent.
“God’s eyes!” Henry thrust forward a pugnacious jaw. “Scum like you are just as responsible for the state of my realm as is Stephen.” One freckled fist pounded the table. “My courageous mother endured scorn and vilification because of traitors such as you. As did all my loyal followers in England. She was the rightful ruler but forced to flee for her very life to escape your treachery.” His fist was now pounding the table with such force the flesh scraped raw.
“My lord,” began the archbishop.
Henry, his face gorged with blood, jumped to his feet and began to beat the table with both fists. “No! Let them hear the truth. While the land suffered, you greedy tubs of suet feasted comfortably in your halls, ignored what little royal authority there was, turned your back while my people were crushed, built unlicensed castles, and coined your own money!”
The rage welled up in his throat so thickly he feared he would choke.
“None can deny these accusations,” said Robert of Leicester in a soothing voice. “However, the weal of the land is of greater urgency, my lord, I think you will agree. We are all aware that justice must—and will—be served. At the proper time.”
There was a murmur of assent.
Breathing heavily, Henry sank back in his seat. He knew if he continued he would fall into one of his tantrums and lose control. This was not the time to give way to his rage. No doubt these magnates already thought him an untried youth. Someone they could lead round by the nose, as they had Stephen. Well, they would learn. By Christ, they would learn.
Every bone, muscle, and sinew he possessed was in a fury of impatience to set about his task of reforms. He could hardly wait to master these nobles’ arrogance and grind their pride into the dust. But he must bide his time. Until he was king he would not have a free hand. To relieve his feelings he grasped the pewter goblet of wine in front of him and ground the stem into the table.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he felt someone watching him. Raising his head he met the quizzical gaze of the archbishop’s cleric, who had today for the first time attended Theobald at the council. The cleric frowned and shook his head, pointing with his finger. Henry saw that he had dug the edge of the goblet into the satiny finish of the table, leaving a ragged scar in the gleaming wood. God’s eyes!
Immediately he put his hands into his lap and gave the cleric a rueful smile. The man returned the smile, which warmed his rather serious face like a ray of sun lighting a wintery morning.
“Does anyone have anything to add?” Archbishop Theobald glanced round the table.
The black-robed cleric whispered something in his ear.
“Yes. Thank you. I think this might be a good time to address the matter of the debased coinage. My lord duke?”
“The cure is very simple: There can be only one standard of money—minted by the royal treasury alone—as there was in my grandfather’s day when the coin of the realm meant something. The number of licensed mints will be reduced and continuously inspected. I will have an honest penny in my kingdom or know the reason why.”
“An excellent point.” Theobald glanced down the table at the other barons, most of whom flushed and avoided the prelate’s gaze. “We must enforce that. Vigorously.”
Henry repressed a smile. Of course anything that would help fill the Church’s coffers must be enforced. Vigorously. Only four of the lords nodded agreement: his cousin William of Gloucester, the earl of Leicester, his bastard uncle Reginald of Cornwall, and a young man called Richard de Lucy. De Lucy had never sworn allegiance to Henry’s mother but had come to power under Stephen and now held the post of justiciar. An unassuming man with a broad open face and mild manner that inspired trust, Henry had immediately taken a liking to him. De Lucy, like Robert of Leicester, would be one of the men to bridge the gap from one reign to another.
“Now then—” the archbishop began then stopped as the black-robed cleric whispered something else in his ear.
“What’s that? Ah—it has been pointed out to me that the matter of unlicensed castles mentioned earlier has not been dealt with.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Henry said instantly. “All such castles must be razed at once. With no exceptions.”
The archbishop nodded his agreement as did a handful of barons. The rest of the magnates glared at Henry with undisguised hatred. No doubt he had made some new enemies in addition to his old ones. It mattered little. They could hate him or love him, as they chose—so long as they obeyed him.
He sent a glance of gratitude to the cleric who had reminded the archbishop of two vital points. As their eyes locked, Henry felt a chill of recognition race down his spine. Had he encountered another harbinger of his fate? And if so was it for good or ill? But, as in the case of Eleanor, it hardly mattered. Between this cleric and himself a tenuous bond was already forming.
Henry turned his head to meet the thoughtful gaze of the archbishop, who had obviously observed their brief exchange.
The talk at the table continued until the Vespers bell sounded. Henry was the first to leap up from his seat.
“After Vespers we will take supper and then resume for an hour or two,” said Theobald.
“I must be excused, Your Grace.” Henry walked with Theobald out the chamber door. “I will go from my wits if I have to face the walls of this chamber for another moment. Pray excuse me at tonight’s meeting. In truth, my head is stuffed so full of facts and figures it’s fit to burst.” He paused. “I intend to see something of London tonight.”
Theobald frowned. “We can easily postpone the next meeting but you are unfamiliar with the city, which is still not safe in these lawless times.” He glanced at his cleric gathering up sheets of parchment from the table.
“Thomas would be most happy to take you on a tour of the safer parts of London and see you come to no harm.”
With a smile the cleric turned. “I would be honored. Although from everything I hear the duke is well able to take care of himself. We could meet after supper if that is agreeable?”
Henry nodded. So—the cleric not only knew what points needed to be covered in the treaty, but also how to flatter. Well, he had no objection to flattery—especially when it was deserved.
The archbishop smiled fondly at the cleric. “This is a most valued member of my household, Archdeacon Thomas Becket. He’s been traveling to Rome and Normandy on your behalf, my lord, and returned only two days ago.”
“The cleric who visited my mother and wife in Rouen? Thank you for the messages you brought back. My family appears to be faring well.”
“Very well indeed. Your son looks the very image of you. I will see you after supper then?”
Henry felt absurdly pleased to hear that his firstborn son looked exactly like him. And his spirits lightened considerably at the prospect of exploring London in the company of a man who—he paused. A man who what? After all, Thomas Becket was a man of the Church and, as such, somewhat suspect. Although an archdeacon was usually an administrator in minor orders, and not necessarily ordained as a priest. In truth, Thomas did not have the look of an ecclesiastic, on the contrary—ah, a man knowledgeable enough to understand what must be done to salvage this ailing realm? A man who might share his hopes and dreams for the future of England? Henry was determined to find out.