THE MOMENT ELEANOR ARRIVED at the manor house of Woodstock on Oxfordshire in late May she sensed trouble brewing.
Accompanied by all her children, as well as a small entourage of attendants, she had hardly dismounted when the sound of raised voices swept through the open doors.
She turned to Earl Robert of Leicester, co-justiciar of England, who had limped into the courtyard to greet her. “King Henry holds a meeting of his council, madam,” said the earl, in answer to her startled look.
“I need not ask if Thomas attends.” Eleanor followed Earl Robert into the hall where the central fire was burning brightly.
“Archbishop and king are already at it hammer and tongs.”
“And I was hoping for a few peaceful months in Oxfordshire with Henry and the children.” She took a goblet of wine offered by a servitor.
Leicester sighed. “You’re not likely to find much peace here—not at the moment, anyway. Although the king has had a victory of sorts in that he persuaded the archbishop to absolve his tenant in chief and restore him to the bosom of Holy Church.”
“Thank God for that.”
Eleanor and the children had left Normandy a sennight earlier, eagerly looking forward to their stay at Woodstock. Late spring was a most pleasant time of year in England; the manor house, especially charming at this time, resembled a burnished jewel set in the surrounding diadem of greenery and wildflowers. With a reluctant sigh, Eleanor settled her older children into various chambers, keeping the younger ones with her in the solar, then helped her women unpack the boxes and saddlebags. The door opened and her future daughter-in-law, Marguerite, walked hesitantly into the chamber, followed by the empress. Daughter of the king of France and his second wife, when she came of age Marguerite would be married to Eleanor’s eldest son, young Henry, whom they called Harry.
“Ma petite, I’m so pleased to see you,” Eleanor said, clasping the child to her. “I was hoping to find my son here. Where is he?”
“Harry is in the council with the king, madam,” Marguerite said in a piping voice. Flaxen-haired and fair-skinned with pale blue eyes, she was small for her age and very fragile-looking.
“Such a pretty child,” said Maud fondly once Marguerite had left. “Quite biddable, I’m thankful to say.” The empress glanced at Eleanor. “Does she resemble your daughters with Louis?”
It always came as a shock to Eleanor whenever anyone mentioned her marriage to Louis of France. She had almost forgotten those fifteen years of misery. Eleven years had passed since the marriage had been annulled, and she had been forced to leave her daughters with the French court as the price of her freedom to marry Henry. Louis had never forgiven her for wedding Henry Plantagenet and allying the vast wealth of her duchy of Aquitaine with Henry’s lands of Normandy and Anjou. The French king steadfastly refused to allow her to see her girls.
“When my children were little, they did not resemble Marguerite in either looks of personality. Far more robust then, but Marie will be eighteen and Alix is fourteen. Who can say what they are like now?”
The empress’s face broke into a broad smile. “Sweet Marie,” she swore, “your girls will soon be of an age to marry and then they can please themselves. It won’t be long before you see them.”
Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat. She longed to see her daughters again, but would they want to see her? In their eyes no doubt they felt their mother had abandoned them. How would they feel about her after so long? She retreated from this painful speculation and concentrated on the fact that all her children with Henry were together at Woodstock. Eleanor prayed they might have an enjoyable time despite the storm signals already in progress. She prayed the atmosphere would not be as turbulent as it had been in the ducal palace at Rouen.
When she entered the great hall at supper she could hardly believe her eyes. Eleanor had not seen the archbishop since he left Normandy in the late spring of 1162. Naturally she had heard—as who had not?—of his wasted look and the extreme penances he visited on himself. Nevertheless, seeing him in the flesh for the first time was a shock. Thomas Becket looked a grotesque shadow of his former self.
“Quite a sight isn’t it?” The bishop of Oxford, seated next to her at the high table, raised his brows. “He lacks only sackcloth and ashes.”
Not to mention a crown of thorns, Eleanor refrained from saying. “The archbishop’s appearance has taken me by surprise.” Having just lost her appetite, she nibbled on a wing of guinea hen.
The torches flaring in their sconces on the walls cast flickering shadows over the high table, covered with a snowy cloth and set with silver saltcellars and a variety of dishes. Under the table, hounds snarled and fought for scraps of food.
“If one did not know Thomas for such a self-seeking opportunist, one might be moved,” said the bishop, giving her a sideways glance.
Eleanor took a sip of wine from a pewter goblet, then gave the bishop a guarded smile. She had no intention of letting him goad her into an indiscretion.
“But even his martyred appearance does not entirely ring true, does it?” The bishop’s lip curled. “As God is my witness, there lies a hidden motive behind this display, of that I am sure. Thomas is as ostentatious in depriving himself as he was in flaunting his luxuries as chancellor. I wonder if our saintly archbishop brought his whip with him. You know that he flagellates himself—or has it done?”
Eleanor, who had heard the rumors, wholeheartedly agreed with the bishop’s observation: something about Thomas’s demeanor did not ring true.
“Be more discreet, my lord bishop,” said the earl of Leicester, who sat on the bishop’s other side and had followed the exchange. “Everyone knows you wanted the primacy for yourself. Heaven forefend that anyone should suggest you speak from disappointed hopes.”
Eleanor bit back a smile.
The bishop, a robust man, simply dressed in a black habit and hood, a silver pectoral cross his only adornment, merely shrugged. “Perhaps some prelates are jealous of what they consider a parvenu’s undeserved success. Others, like myself, simply wait for the inevitable.”
“You mean on his rise to power the archbishop has made enough enemies only too ready now to see him brought down?” Eleanor glanced at the bishop, curious to see how he would respond.
“I have always admired your political acuity, madam. Thomas has made foes, of that you can be sure. And now the king is among them.” The bishop speared a sliver of hare stewed in greens. “The pack scents blood. As God is my witness, troublous times lie ahead.”
Eleanor feared the bishop was right.
One evening a sennight later, Henry came to their bed red-faced and aflame with resentment. Eleanor, lying naked under a blue silk coverlet, in the small but well-appointed solar at Woodstock, watched him sit heavily on a stool and angrily tug at his scuffed black boots.
“We just finished another argument. To do with the sheriffs! My God, that man is so puffed up with pride.”
“What did he do?” she asked.
His boots finally off, Henry stood up and practically tore the rust-colored tunic from his body. “What does it matter what he did? It is his attitude. He thinks he is king, he thinks he is God!”
He was prickly as a porcupine and Eleanor knew she must tread carefully. With a great effort, she refrained from pointing out that antagonizing Thomas over every little thing that arose was a grave error. She watched Henry with troubled eyes and a heavy heart. It was unusual for him to be so blind to his own best interests, but any reasonable argument was wasted upon him. In his present state of mind, he would never admit he was wrong.
“What do your magnates say to his—his attitude?”
“Well, of course, they don’t want to get on the wrong side of the Church.” Henry blew out the candle sitting in its silver holder on the oak table and crawled into bed.
“My dear,” she began.
“Thomas thinks I cannot rule without him, waits for me to put a foot wrong. I am no longer the green boy he first knew, and I don’t need his counsel. By God’s eyes, if he thinks—”
“My dear,” she interjected, “I have put up with Thomas as your closest confidant and advisor in all things. His presence has overshadowed our lives. But where he has never been, and where I will not allow him now, is in our bed.”
Henry was silent; after a moment, he said, “Forgive me, Nell.”
She leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Ever since I’ve arrived, your mind has been obsessed with the archbishop and how to bend him to your will. The two of you remind me of nothing so much as two stubborn boys quarreling over a toy—only in this case the prize is no less than England itself. You tread dangerous ground here, Henry. However much you may regret it, the deed is done. You and Thomas must now deal with one another as king and archbishop. Compromise—”
“England itself.” Henry wagged a finger at her. “Exactly. Thomas wants to control what is mine, to prove to everyone that he is my equal in power.” He raised himself on one elbow. “Thus he seeks to ruin my plans for the realm!” He began to pound the bed with his free hand. “Is this not treason? Every Englishman owes loyalty first to his king—”
Eleanor wanted to scream. Had he heard one word she said? She closed her ears to his endless harangue peppered with phrases like “cut him down to size . . . he will rue the day . . force the pope to take action . . .” and other threats of a similar nature.
She felt she was going mad. Henry was more preoccupied with Thomas now, when he hated him, than he had been when he loved him! And yet—were not the bonds of hate as strong as those of love?
The following morning, Eleanor persuaded Henry to allow her into the council chamber to observe.
“Not one word, Nell.”
“I promise.”
Trying to remain inconspicuous in a corner of the hot, stuffy chamber, Eleanor saw their eldest son, Harry, seated on a stool beside his father. He stifled a yawn, and she smiled.
Thomas rose to his feet. “In regard to the matter of the sheriffs, my lords, Sire. According to the ancient custom of the realm, no new taxes may be imposed without the unanimous consent of the magnates.”
“Who said anything about imposing a tax?” Henry looked surprised. “I simply said that moneys that now go to the sheriffs will go into the treasury.”
Eleanor could see the magnates look at one another in dismay. They glanced at Henry and then at Thomas. Not one of them wanted to support the archbishop, that was obvious, but loyalty to their purse was stronger than loyalty to the crown.
“If the sheriffs’ recompense is paid directly into the treasury, then it is no different from a new tax, Sire,” said John the marshal. “I believe you said yourself it would go into the treasury as a legal tax. Much as I wish to support you in this matter, I cannot give my consent.”
Trust the venal marshal to look to himself first. But even the others, albeit somewhat reluctantly, agreed. An expression of satisfaction flitted across the archbishop’s pale countenance. Henry, crimson-faced, was barely managing to stay in control.
But he was no fool, thank the Holy Mother. To flout his own magnates would be to cut his own throat, and he knew it. Harry looked from his father to Thomas and back again. He understood nothing, poor lad; nor did she in this instance, Eleanor realized—but the boy must make a start sometime if one day he was to rule.
“My lords, I will not press you against your will,” Henry said in a strangled voice. “Let matters proceed as usual.”
Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. She saw Thomas step forward then suddenly stop. No wonder. The expression on Henry’s face was decidedly menacing—the expression of a man who has been checkmated, and will make his opponent pay dearly.
Unable to breathe in such a dread atmosphere, Eleanor slipped out the door of the chamber and walked outside into the lucent courtyard and the laughter of her children at play. Overhead a blue sky dazzled, the air sparkled with sunshine, and the scent of summer roses overpowered the senses. But the oppressive ambiance in the council chamber clung to her spirits like a giant cobweb. Henry was setting his own course. Where will it end? his mother had asked her. He was without a guide now, refusing to listen to anyone’s advice.
Thomas started across the courtyard, a lonely black-robed figure, head bent, hands behind his back. Harry ran out behind him. Eleanor held out her arms, expecting him to run to her. To her great surprise, her son ran up to Thomas and embraced him. The archbishop patted the boy’s head, an obvious affection strong between them.
Oddly moved, Eleanor turned away—and allowed herself to complete a thought that had hovered at the rim of her mind for some days. Now that Thomas no longer threatened her in the inexplicable way he always had, was she actually going to miss his presence at Henry’s side? It was a shocking realization.