ELEANOR AND HENRY HELD their Christmas court at Berkhamsted Castle twenty-five miles northwest of London. The day after Twelfth Night they left for Salisbury. Henry was oddly silent on the journey, brooding, Eleanor surmised, over the Christmas court. Marked by icy rains, the holidays had been accompanied by a sense of strain with Henry’s advisors—Leicester, de Lucy, and his cousin William of Gloucester—the tension extending even to a visiting envoy from the pope, despite the fact that the envoy had arrived with good news.
Berkhamsted had belonged to Thomas Becket when he was chancellor of England, before Henry returned it to royal custody. Although the primate had not attended the court, Eleanor felt his presence everywhere: in the sumptuous hangings on the walls, the ornately carved oak table in the great hall, the plush canopied beds. His aura even extended to a set of elegant silver wine goblets chased with rubies. Henry had felt like such an outsider that he’d sent for the royal plate to be fetched from Winchester to remind himself—and others—that this was now his castle.
As they rode under an ice-gray sky accompanied by harsh winter winds, Eleanor sighed as she tried to restrain a growing feeling of impatience. What was the matter with Henry? The papal envoy had informed him that the pope had chastised Thomas for his open defiance against the king’s wishes, urging him to observe the customs of the realm and omit the offending salve ordine meo, “saving the privileges of my order,” that meant he could refuse to do whatever the king wished. According to the envoy, Thomas had agreed and promised to make his submission to the king personally. This was most certainly good news, so why was Henry still hanging on to the dispute like a disgruntled child?
Eleanor, glancing over at him, could tell by the stubborn set of his jaw that there was no point in asking him. Holy Mother, she prayed his spirits would improve by the time they reached Salisbury.
“I hate this castle,” Eleanor said, looking out of the window slit. “A wolf walks over my grave whenever I come to Salisbury.” Despite the heat from the charcoal braziers warding off the January chill, Henry saw a shiver run through her.
“Then come with me to Clarendon tomorrow,” he said, perched on a crimson-cushioned stool and leafing through sheaves of parchment spread out on an oak table. “You know I need your support in the major battle that lies ahead.”
He watched Eleanor’s body tense as she continued to stare out at the Salisbury plain shrouded in darkness.
“Only because you insist on making it one,” she said. “Thomas has agreed to all you wanted. By the way, what are these ‘customs of the realm’ you expect Thomas to agree to? Even I don’t know what they are.”
The bells rang for compline. Henry ran his hands through his bristly hair. “No one would expect you to know them. They go back to the Conquest.”
“Yes, all right, but what are they?” Eleanor turned abruptly from the window slit.
“You will learn soon enough.” Henry gave a grim smile. “In any case, I distrust Thomas’s change of heart. He told the pope he agreed to my demands with no witnesses present, apparently. He could recant at any time.”
“Why not leave well enough alone? Cancel the meeting at Clarendon.”
“How would that look? I can’t just bow to Thomas’s verbal agreement to the pope, made under pressure from His Holiness, with no safeguards to protect me.”
“I’m well aware that you have never bowed to anyone, even God. I don’t ask the impossible.” Eleanor stalked over to the bed.
Henry gazed at her in astonishment. Why was she so hostile? “What is that blasphemy supposed to mean? I am a good Christian who hears Mass every day.”
“In truth, you treat God as another sovereign, slightly more powerful than yourself. Is this your idea of being a good Christian?”
He frowned as he watched Eleanor pull vehemently at her green barbette and toss it onto the bed, then uncoil her hair, letting it ripple down her back in heavy chestnut waves.
“What is it you would have me do, then?” he asked in a conciliatory tone. The last thing he wanted was an argument with Eleanor.
“Take Thomas at his word. Stop this contest of wills, this personal battle between the two of you.”
With impatient fingers, she unclasped her gold-filigreed girdle and threw it on the crimson-canopied bed. Henry frowned. “I never thought to see you play devil’s advocate for Thomas, Nell.”
“Nor did I. That is my whole point. What do you hope to gain with this council at Clarendon?” She struggled out of her green velvet tunic and flung it atop the girdle. “And don’t tell me some nonsense about a definitive statement being needed on those issues where authority is divided, and a return to the ‘old customs,’ whatever they are. I heard that at Berkhamsted until I thought I would go from my wits.”
“Thomas purported not to understand the ‘old customs’ I mentioned, even though he agreed to abide by them. How can you abide by something you don’t understand? These customs will now be clarified and written down, one by one. There will be no room for doubt. What can you possibly find objectionable in that?”
Eleanor raised her brows. “Oh come, you cannot cozen me, Henry. These customs to be written down are merely a ruse. It is really Thomas’s total humiliation you seek. To make a public example of him before the bishops.”
“Utter nonsense.” Henry slammed a sheaf of parchments down upon the table. “I don’t know what I’ve done to warrant this attack.”
“Don’t you? Sometimes—sometimes—your capacity for vindictiveness frightens me, that’s all.” She sent him a troubled glance. “If I thoroughly displeased you, would you behave in like fashion to me, I wonder?”
“How could you ever think such a thing?” Henry rose slowly to his feet, leaves of parchment falling to the floor. “I love you, you are my wife, my queen!”
“You loved Thomas not so long ago, remember?”
“Did I? Well, I hate him now. And he me, by the way he’s behaving.”
“You hate—both of you—as only two who have loved can hate.”
Henry swallowed and could think of nothing to say. The conversation was taking a decidedly unpleasant turn. Eleanor nearly tore off her amber-colored gown; she stood now in only her chemise.
“I cannot bear it when the great man I married, the one who promotes justice and rules wisely, behaves like a foolish boy.” She grabbed the clothes from the bed and stalked across the chamber to a pole that stuck out from the wall, then hung each garment purposefully on the pole. She lifted the chemise over her head and hung it on the pole as well.
“Perhaps you would have done better to stay married to Louis of France, then,” Henry retorted, stung. “I didn’t realize I was such a bitter disappointment.”
She gave him a withering look. “Why do you deliberately misunderstand when you know perfectly well what I mean?”
Despite his growing impatience, Henry was stirred at the sight of her ripe loveliness, noting that she was more voluptuous, her hips rounder, her breasts heavier than when he had first married her.
In the light of a dozen glowing white tapers, Henry was surprised to see tiny lines mark the corners of her eyes, a faint wrinkle march across the smooth tilt of her neck, a furrow between the slant of her dark eyebrows, and a slight heaviness in her belly. Although she was still a wonderfully fine figure of a woman, he was quite suddenly struck by the eleven-year difference in their ages.
Eleanor was forty-one years old; he would be thirty in two months’ time. Not that this was of any real importance. He could not imagine what had brought this to his attention.
She began to rub oil into the golden skin of her arms, neck, and bosom. The faint scent of attar of roses permeated the air.
“You look very beautiful, Nell, very desirable.” And it was true. The telltale signs of age in no way impaired her loveliness or detracted from her desirability.
She gave him a faint smile. “It has been a while since you’ve told me that.”
“Well, I’m telling you now.” Would nothing please her?
All Henry wanted—needed—was Eleanor’s approval, her unquestioning acquiescence in his affairs of state. Surely he had every right in the world to expect his wife and queen to give him the support and agreement that were his due. Couldn’t she see how important this business with Thomas was to him? He did not want sermons, judgment, or reproaches. Not even questions.
Suddenly it became essential to him that he create a positive effect upon her. He sat back down upon the stool, bent to pick up the leaves of parchment lying on the floor, and laid them carefully on the table. Eleanor, deep in her own thoughts, walked by him. He grabbed her around the waist and looked up at her.
“I must tell you more often how remarkably beautiful you still are,” he said.
“Still? What do you mean still?” She tried to pull away.
God’s eyes! “I refuse to be put off by anything you say. No matter how foolish.” Henry buried his face between the soft peaks of her breasts. He could not remember the last time they had made love, only that it had been a long time. Too long.
Absently she stroked his hair. He began to caress her, then fastened his lips around one of her prominent nipples, letting his hands slide down her smooth flanks to the juncture of her thighs. After a few moments her hands tightened on his hair. He abandoned her breast, slid off the stool, and fell to his knees. When she threw back her head and cried out, he carried her to the bed. Lost in the hunger of his own need, the impact of flesh thrusting against flesh, Henry felt himself rising and falling as Eleanor’s body arched and spasmed beneath him. When they were spent, Henry, immensely gratified by the intensity of the effect he had created, vowed never to neglect her for so long again. And to be reminded—not that he really needed it—that in their bed he was still the undisputed master and she every bit as responsive to his desires.
Or was it he who was responsive to hers? He had never been quite sure. And when all was said and done, what did it matter?
“What a truly wonderful lover you are, Henry,” Eleanor whispered, stretching languorously. “Whatever goes wrong between us, you always know exactly how to put it right. Everything else becomes unimportant.” She reminded him of a golden lioness, purring contentedly. He stroked her hair, spread out like a mane on either side of her face, and gazed into her eyes, which glowed like emeralds.
“I won’t let Thomas come between us again,” he said, determined that this would not be an idle promise.
“Thomas?” Eleanor murmured drowsily. “Thomas who?” She turned over on her side and closed her eyes.
Henry pulled the crimson coverlet up over her shoulder, then leaned over to kiss her cheek, feeling exceptionally close to her. He watched her for a while, his hand stroking her hair. When her breathing became regular, he returned to his work.
In the cold dawn of a wet January morning two days later, Henry arrived at Clarendon. There were so many pavilions clustered around the hunting lodge that it looked under siege. Situated on wild and wooded land near Salisbury, not far from the New Forest, Clarendon was Henry’s favorite lodge, notwithstanding the misty drizzle that on this day made visibility near impossible.
“The prelates and magnates could have been housed far more comfortably at Windsor, Winchester, or even Westminster, Sire,” said the co-justiciar, Richard de Lucy. “Why pick this godforsaken spot?”
“Perhaps it pleases our liege-lord to see his council members camped outside in the rain,” replied Robert of Leicester in a sour voice.
Henry repressed a smile as he donned a sheepskin cloak. “At the moment, it pleases me to stroll outside and observe the weather for myself.”
“But the council is soon to begin—”
“I will be there, Leicester, never fear.” The earl was becoming more like a scolding fishwife every day.
While threading his way through the maze of tents Henry could hear throats being cleared and loud sneezing. Excellent! Uncomfortable prelates meant malleable prelates—in a hurry to get their business over and done with so they could return home to more felicitous surroundings. Henry strolled around the camp, filled with a sense of anticipation. Despite Eleanor’s caveat about leaving well enough alone, Thomas did need to be taught a lesson; the other prelates required an example to be made. The fur might fly, threats and accusations might be hurled back and forth, but Henry was sure of the outcome. In truth, he could hardly wait.
When the bells rang for sext, he strolled into the lodge where Thomas and the other prelates awaited him, followed by his co-justiciars, de Lucy and Leicester. The prelates were huddled together around an oak table perusing a lengthy document that lay spread out before them. Thomas sat at the center of the table; next to him sat the archbishop of York, a look of displeasure on his pudgy face. It was a dismal setting, an affront in itself, Henry thought, pleased. One had only to look at the bare wooden walls, the hard uncushioned stools, and the one copper brazier provided for heat to realize how miserable they must be.
“Well, my lord bishops,” Henry began. “You have all read the document?”
“We have read all the clauses in this document,” announced the bishop of London. “We find only a few to be truly objectionable.” The bishop was one of Henry’s few allies present, but even he looked ready to oppose him.
Henry, who already knew which clauses the bishop referred to, sat down opposite Thomas as he asked, “And which are these, my lord bishop?”
Bishop Foliot cleared his throat. “I will list them, my lord king, if everyone is willing?” The other prelates nodded and he began. “‘Too many churchmen appear dissatisfied with the justice they receive in England and are going to Rome to appeal to the pope. The king states that no prelate may, one, leave the country, or, two, appeal to the pope, without his consent.’”
“Not appeal to the pope or leave the country! You have gone too far, my lord king.” The Bishop of Chichester wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his black gown and sent Henry a bitter look. “You can hardly expect us to agree.”
That is just what I expect, Henry barely refrained from saying. And if these cloistered innocents believed otherwise, he pitied them. He flicked a glance at Thomas in his black robes, who was staring fixedly at the table.
“‘There must be no excommunication of the king’s ministers,’” continued the bishop, “‘his tenants in chief, or great lords without the king’s consent.’”
“Do you really expect us to approve that?” asked a bishop from the south of England. “Excommunication is our divine right.”
The other prelates nodded in agreement.
The bishop of London paused briefly, but as Henry made no response, went on: “‘Too many criminals claim to be churchmen and demand to be tried by the church courts, which let them off too lightly. They must be handed over to the lay courts for proper punishment after the ecclesiastical courts have dealt with them.’”
“I would remind you that this is the issue that started the whole business,” Henry interjected.
“This is outrageous,” sputtered the elderly bishop of Norwich, rising unsteadily to his feet. “With dire implications for Holy Church.”
Henry wondered if any one of those present, except for Thomas, of course, realized how dire these clauses could become. They would virtually place the Church of England under the king’s control; civil law would take precedence over canon law. What Henry was doing, Eleanor had warned him, was taking the disagreement between himself and Thomas and elevating it into a potential schism between Church and State. Nonsense, Henry reminded himself—that was the furthest thing from his intention.
“We will certainly not sign this instrument of the devil!”
“Your Grace has lost his reason!”
A whole chorus of protesting voices joined in.
“These cannot be ancestral customs of the realm, my lord king.” The bishop of Norwich looked totally bewildered.
Henry looked at Thomas. If the flock were disquieted, let the shepherd quiet them. If he could.
“I regret to inform you, my lord bishops, that these are ancestral customs,” said Thomas slowly. “Indeed, they go back to the time of the Conquest.”
There was a horrified silence. A few of the prelates appeared close to tears.
“But that is no reason we need tolerate them now, in more enlightened times,” Thomas continued, his voice now shaking with suppressed anger. “If our predecessors were so misguided as to allow such customs, we need not—in truth, we must not—follow their example. This document is wicked and harmful; the privileges of the clergy cannot be wrested from them. Violent hands must never be laid on God’s anointed.” His voice rose with passion.
Bishop Foliot raised skeptical eyebrows. “Wicked? My lord archbishop, you speak with religious conviction but not with reason. The king is not attempting to harm Holy Church. He merely wishes us not to put obstacles in the way of administering justice.”
There was a murmur of agreement from several of the prelates, Henry noted. “Whose justice?” Thomas practically spat out the words. “It is my belief that the king’s intention is to take control of Holy Church and relegate us to figureheads, with the pope only nominally in charge.”
“Now His Grace of Canterbury goes too far,” responded the bishop of Winchester in a lofty voice. Along with Henry’s mother, the tall and elegant Winchester was the last living grandchild of the Conqueror, and as such, Henry surmised, his words would command attention. “This is a ridiculous charge.”
Henry was proved right when there was a loud chorus of assent from the other prelates. He saw a look of surprise pass over Thomas’s face. Obviously he had expected agreement and support.
Roger, archbishop of York, rose to his feet. His pale blue eyes narrowed as he held up a chubby finger. “Indeed,” he lisped, “I agree with my lord bishop of Winchester and advise caution. Let us not stoop to reckless judgments and assumptions.”
Henry, who had no love for the pompous York, knew that the archbishop’s dislike of Thomas would make him an ally of the crown.
“Let me point out,” continued Roger, wagging his finger, “that the king can cite good authority in canon law over the matter of the criminatory clerks. One passage in Gratian’s Decretum lays down that degraded clerks may be handed over to a secular court.”
“And certainly in the case of a cleric committing murder or rape, he would be deprived of holy orders,” added the bishop of Winchester. “That is obvious.”
“Would that also be true of highly placed prelates who, let us say, were overly fond of their canons?” Thomas glanced briefly at the archbishop of York.
York, Henry noted, biting back a smile, turned crimson; his immoral tendencies were well known.
“And isn’t that enough?” Thomas continued, his face now pale with anger. “Being expelled from holy orders is surely enough! To suffer the king’s punishment as well is—is—it is like—” His voice was rising and he paused to gain control.
Henry took a step forward. “Were you going to say that in those men who have taken holy orders Jesus himself dwells? And that to try a man twice for the same crime is to bring the Christ again before Pontius Pilate?”
Thomas rose, looking like a gaunt black scarecrow. His voice quivered with emotion as he cried out, “Yes, yes that is what I was going to say.” He glared at Henry. “How could you know that?”
Henry’s heart began to pound as he confronted the tall figure across the table. It was a moment before he found his voice. “Should I not know what you will say better than anyone, Tom? What was I? Barely twenty-one when I came to the throne?” Henry paused. Dear God, was that only nine years ago? He swallowed and forced himself to go on.
“Who was it molded my mind? Whose every word did I hang on? Who was my mentor? My friend? My most trusted advisor? Who was it said to me, listen well to what I have to teach you, my son, for I mean to make you the best ruler that England has ever had?”
Thomas signed himself as he stared at Henry, mouth agape. “Yet for all that, still you threaten us,” he croaked in a voice laced with anguish.
“No, my lord archbishop, as you yourself taught me, I do not threaten. I act.”
Henry turned on his heel and left the council chamber. Outside the mist had turned to a cold rain. With an unsteady hand he wiped his eyes, from the raindrops or his own tears he could not say.