IN LATE MAY, HENRY and Eleanor accompanied Thomas Becket, Richard de Lucy, young Henry, and their entourage on the two-day journey to Barfleur. Here, Thomas, de Lucy, and young Henry would take ship for Southampton. It was a day of sparkling brightness which, to Henry’s mind, boded well for the voyage and events in England. A frivolous wind chased snowdrifts of cloud across an azure sky, dappling the sea in green and blue patches.
Henry and Eleanor took turns kissing and hugging their seven-year-old son, then lowered him carefully into a small boat. De Lucy climbed in after him; bulging saddlebags and roped bundles followed. A berner, two howling brachets clutched under each arm, jumped in behind them; lastly, a falconer, a hooded Icelandic peregrine anxiously clawing his gauntleted wrist, carefully slid down into the ship. This was Henry’s gift to his young son, who was overcome with the ecstasy of owning his first falcon, the excitement of the journey, and the anticipation of representing his father.
“Do as the chancellor and justiciar tell you, my son,” said Henry, gazing at his heir with affection.
To his great relief, as the boy grew older his body had become stockier and his hair had turned tawny-red, more like his own. With the exception of the green eyes, his earlier resemblance to Stephen of Blois became less pronounced with each passing year …
A sailor pulled on the oars; the small boat headed toward the hoy which, rigged fore and aft, lay bobbing in the white-capped shallows.
Eleanor turned to Henry. “I will wait for you down the quay, so that you may have a few words alone with our new archbishop-to-be.”
“Thank you, Nell.” He watched her walk down the quay, well out of earshot. “What a woman for tact, eh, Thomas?”
“Indeed.”
Waiting for the boat to return, Henry and Thomas stood close together, mantles billowing in the brisk Channel wind. Sunlight danced on the surface of the shining sea.
Impulsively Henry grabbed his chancellor by both arms and roughly shook him. “Well, my dear friend, when next we meet you will be the archbishop of Canterbury!” He made a great show of sniffing the air. “God’s eyes, do I already detect an odor of sanctity about you?”
Thomas laughed and tried to free himself from Henry’s grip. They wrestled briefly before Thomas freed his arms.
“How I will miss your witty tongue and our contentious debates. Who else can cross swords with me on virtually every subject? My boon companion, how large a hole you will leave.” Henry gave a mock sigh. “Well, you will still be my chancellor, I mustn’t forget that. We need not forego all our adventures together.” He chuckled. “Do you remember the time we wrestled near Tower Royal and that cheeky beggar ran off with your mantle? Or the time we had our first adventure together in that tavern on Gropecuntlane? What was the name of that rogue who wanted to sell you Our Lord’s foreskin?”
“Black Hugo.”
“What a memory. By God’s eyes, will I ever forget that night … all those sevens I threw, one right after the other …” He shook his head in wonder. “Fortune has rarely deserted me since, now that I think on it.”
Thomas gazed at him with an unfathomable look, then dropped his voice. “Do you also remember the night we swore a blood brotherhood?”
“What I recall is that we were both somewhat the worse for wine that night.”
“In vino Veritas …” Thomas began.
“We must catch the wind, my lord chancellor,” called the sailor who had rowed back to the quay.
Slowly Thomas reached out his hand; Henry clasped it, then threw his arms around his friend in a hearty embrace. For an instant Henry was aware of a current pulling between them, an inner tension that gripped him from head to foot with all the force of a Channel undertow. He stepped back.
Thomas girded his scarlet robe and mantle up about his knees, and let the sailor assist him into the rocking vessel. The prow of the tiny boat headed for the moored ship.
On the quay Henry was acutely aware of the breadth of sea and sky, sunlight glancing off the breakers, Thomas’s scarlet figure upright in the prow, braced against the swing and surge of the boat against the green waves. All of it etched clear and fresh as a newly minted coin.
Suddenly, he was no longer alone. Eleanor stood beside him.
“Nell,” he began, and found, to his surprise, he could not go on. Sweat beaded his brow; the breath felt clogged in his throat. What in God’s name was the matter with him?
Eleanor clasped his hand in hers and squeezed it. The tightness in his throat loosened. A wave of understanding and tenderness flowed from her with such acute force Henry could have wept. There was no need to explain. Her very presence was enough—almost enough—to fill the sudden void. Henry had not expected to feel this—this inexplicable sense of emptiness. It was like losing father, elder brother, mentor, and merry companion all in the same moment.
Shaken yet comforted at the same time, Henry put his arm around Eleanor and kissed her softly on the lips. “I must rely on you now, my love, for all that Thomas gave me. You will be my confidante, my trusted advisor, my boon companion—as well as my heart’s love.”
“As always, my lord.” Her eyes swam with tears.
They stood thus, arms entwined, watching on the quay until the ship was only a blur on the far horizon. By the time it vanished, Henry had almost entirely recovered. What had gotten into him? There was naught to mourn, everything to celebrate. A renewed burst of confidence swept through him. All was well in his world, and not just in his world alone, but also those dependent upon him for survival.
Bellebelle was safe and secure. Their misbegotten son, Geoffrey, child of his heart, Henry recognized, was being raised as a royal prince.
His dear friend Thomas had been given the chance to achieve the power and success Henry knew he had always craved. Perhaps the demons of Thomas’s humble origins would be exorcised at last; he would grow into the greatness that Henry had long suspected lay buried within him.
Then there were his legitimate children. Richard would inherit his mother’s duchy of Aquitaine; Henry was already investigating the possibility of having his youngest son, Geoffrey, marry the heiress of Brittainy. Soon he would be looking to form illustrious alliances for his daughters, thus continuing to expand his empire.
His heir, young Henry, whom he intended to crown king of England while, he, Henry, yet lived, would establish the succession beyond any doubt or future breach of faith from others.
Best of all he had his dearest Eleanor, now nestled within the crook of his arm, her cheek against his chin. She was still the enchanting Circe who had captivated his heart, stirred his loins, and challenged his intellect. But she was becoming more like Penelope as well. Steadfast as moonrise, dependable as sunset, she was part of him—breath, blood, bone, and sinew. All the threads of his life had come together now, rewoven into a glittering new fabric.
Henry felt his spirit take flight on invisible wings. He knew that he would remember this moment of pure, unadulterated joy all the days of his life.