ON A MILD DAY in March, Eleanor met with one of the men she had set to keep a watch on Thomas. She was in the courtyard of Angers Castle and the steward hovered nearby to ensure her privacy.
“The primate is on his way to Angers, Lady,” the man, one Simon of Châtellerault, said to her. “Indeed, he should be here by tomorrow or the day after at the latest. You did not say to stop him, so we have not done so. Of course if there is need . . .” He patted the dagger that hung in its sheath from his wide leather belt.
“No, no, of course you cannot stop him from going where he likes. Sweet Marie!” She swallowed. “Yes, thank you, Simon. Keep an eye on him as before. But no interference.”
Simon bowed and they exchanged a brief reluctant look before he turned on his heel and left.
Thus when the steward approached her at the high table in the great hall the following day at noon, she was not surprised.
“Madam, I hardly know how to tell you—” He was in such a state of agitation that he had to take a deep breath before continuing. “Thomas Becket has arrived and seeks an audience with you.”
“I wondered when he would make an appearance here,” said the bishop of Angers with a grim smile. “He has been to the pope, the king’s mother in Rouen, and everyone else of consequence.”
Even though she was prepared, Eleanor’s heart began to pound. The previous fall, Thomas had sent her a letter asking for her help, and she had sent him a tactful missive of refusal.
“He must know I cannot help him,” she said. “Even the pope has not been able to make Henry change his decree of banishment. There is no point in seeing him.”
Ralph de Faye scratched his chin reflectively. “It might be politic to see him, niece. You could learn something to your advantage.”
Everything in her cried out against allowing Thomas inside the hall.
“Your uncle is right. Forewarned is forearmed, madam,” added the bishop of Angers. “And perhaps you can persuade the former archbishop that it does not aid his cause to trumpet his grievances everywhere he goes.”
She sighed in resignation. “If the former archbishop wishes to join us at table, tell him he is welcome.” The steward withdrew. She picked up her goblet, surprised to see that her fingers trembled.
When Thomas approached the high table, accompanied by his secretary, Herbert of Bosham, his presence appeared to stun everyone in the hall. Eleanor herself gave an involuntary gasp, unable to conceal her shock. It had been eighteen months since she had seen Thomas—since before she had departed England for Aquitaine—and as impossible as it seemed, in that time he had grown even more gaunt.
“It is kind of you to see a poor pilgrim, madam,” he said.
That voice, thought Eleanor, feeling sick to her belly, that mellifluous, spellbinding voice was still the same. But—poor pilgrim? Did Thomas think this assumed humility would fool her? Unable to speak, she indicated two places at the table. Thomas and his secretary seated themselves on the wooden bench.
“Pour His Grace some wine,” Eleanor said to the steward in a strangled voice. “You will take some refreshment?”
“Indeed. And most welcome it is. I had been subsisting entirely on mixtum, but my health suffered as a result and the Holy Father urged me to modify my diet.”
Mixtum—an unpalatable mixture of bread and wine—would certainly help explain the archbishop’s emaciated look. While the steward set two more trenchers on the table and poured wine into two silver goblets, Eleanor saw that the bishop of Angers had beads of sweat across his broad forehead. The constable of Angers, also at the high table, stared at Thomas with narrowed eyes. Richard, Geoffrey, and Matilda, who had heard their father curse and rail at the archbishop, stared at him as if Lucifer himself had entered the hall. Even Uncle Ralph, who always had so much to say for himself, was suddenly struck dumb.
Below the dais, a group of knights seated at the trestle tables rose to their feet, hands falling to their sword hilts. At the outraged expression on their faces, Eleanor suppressed a gasp. To Henry’s mesnie this man was an enemy. She whispered to the constable, who immediately left the table to quiet the knights, then she signaled frantically to the Aquitainian troubadour, who immediately began to play a gay dancing song from Moorish Spain. This seemed to break the spell. The constable said something to the knights and, after a moment’s hesitation, they resumed their seats.
The bishop of Angers stepped quickly into the breach and addressed Thomas in Latin. After listening to a few sentences, Eleanor recovered sufficiently to ask, “You have come from the abbey in Burgundy, my lord Archbishop?” She knew he had not been there but wanted to see what he would say.
“Most recently from Paris, Lady, where I had an audience with King Louis. He was most receptive.”
While Thomas nibbled fastidiously at a piece of carp and sipped his wine, Eleanor exchanged a glance with her uncle. She could just imagine the impression Thomas had made on the gullible French king, who was always ready to believe the worst of Henry.
“Perhaps you will tell us the reason for your unexpected visit, my lord Archbishop?” Ralph de Faye picked at his teeth with the point of his dagger.
“I had hoped to have a word with the regent—in private, if that is possible.” Thomas turned his burning gaze toward her. “Surely you will not refuse this humble petitioner?”
What could she say? Eleanor gave a reluctant nod. She did not look forward to a private encounter with Thomas but could see no way out of it. The meal dragged on interminably. Eleanor sipped anxiously at her goblet of wine, glancing surreptitiously at Thomas, wondering why she felt so compelled to look at him.
It was during one of these glances that she noticed that the sleeves of his black habit were tightly fastened at the wrist, and for an instant she had the illusion that there was movement there. She now recalled hearing a bizarre tale that the archbishop kept in his sleeves maggots that ate at his flesh. Other stories, even more preposterous, abounded: Thomas had turned water into wine while dining with the pope; a bream had leapt joyfully from the water into his lap while he rowed a boat; and the Virgin herself had sewn a rent in his worn pair of drawers. The idea of the Holy Mother performing so . . . The sleeve moved again, as if living creatures crawled therein. Sweet Marie, was it possible? She shuddered.
“Why do you stare so, Lady?” Thomas was looking at her. “Is something amiss?”
Eleanor, embarrassed, blurted out, “It seemed to me that something moved in your sleeve, that is all.”
“It is pearls I carry with me, concealed in case I am in dire need.” He undid one of his sleeves and out slid several gleaming white pearls. “See?”
When, speechless, she nodded, he slid the pearls back in, then held out his wrist while Herbert Bosham retied it. Once again, Eleanor had the illusion that the sleeve moved as if filled with something alive—pearls would not move in such a fashion. She wondered if she were going mad.
After the meal Eleanor met with Thomas alone in the solar. They sat facing each other on two cushioned stools, a copper charcoal brazier between them.
“I believe you know why I am here, madam.” Thomas warmed his veined hands over the burning brazier. “So I will get right to the point. I would have this banishment ended so I can return to my See of Canterbury, which, I am told, is sadly neglected and will surely fall into ruin. I also hear the Church of England is being grievously oppressed. Only my presence will save her.”
“Your Grace, the Church is not being oppressed, I can assure you.” Eleanor kept her voice low and pleasant. “In order to return to your See, you need the pope’s permission, do you not?”
“If the king consents, the Holy Father will most certainly agree. He is anxious that King Henry and myself be on agreeable terms.”
“You wrote to me last autumn with this same request and I answered that I could not help. What is it you think I can do now that I could not do then?”
He did not reply, and Eleanor sensed that this was difficult for Thomas, a proud man forcing himself to ask Henry’s wife and queen, whom he had always disliked, for a boon. She knew a moment’s sympathy. It was still almost impossible to reconcile this apparition seated before her with the former chancellor of England, known for his wit and charm, admired and respected in every court in Europe.
“Use your influence to intercede on my behalf,” Thomas said at last.
“I have never involved myself with the politics of England, only Aquitaine. All I can say is that until you agree to Henry’s conditions, he will never allow you to return.”
A flash of anger lit his eyes. “The king asks me to put my sovereign before my God. How can I, a servant of God and the Holy Church, do that?”
This was a gross oversimplification of the facts and Eleanor was sure Thomas knew that as well as she, but there was little point in saying so.
“I recall you as being most persuasive, madam,” he continued. “It is my belief that you, if anyone, could make your husband see reason—if you so chose.” He folded his hands and tucked them under his chin. “King Henry is only injuring himself with his present attitude.”
“That is as may be, but do you injure him any less by spreading slander and malice over his realm?” Eleanor saw a faint flush touch his cheekbones then vanish.
Thomas stared at her with dark, unfathomable eyes. “Why do you refuse to plead my cause?”
Eleanor hesitated. Mainly because she felt it would do no good. It was obvious to her that Thomas should be returned to his See, although she suspected he would foment as much trouble in England as he was doing on the Continent. But she could hardly say this. The interview was proving every bit as difficult as she had envisioned and suddenly she wished that a witness were present. In her agitation she rose from her stool and began to pace the chamber.
“Well?” A slight tremor shook Thomas’s gaunt frame and Eleanor realized it was taking a supreme effort of will to leash his rage.
“Please understand that I view the state of affairs between my husband and yourself as deplorable,” Eleanor said, more distressed than she had realized. “That two men who cared for and respected one another should now be implacable enemies saddens me greatly.”
Thomas’s expressionless face suddenly twisted into a mask of such fury that she caught her breath. “You are presumptuous, madam! What can you, a mere woman, know of how the king and I felt about each other?” The words came out in a hiss. “How could you even begin to understand the bond between us? You have always hated me, ever since I was appointed chancellor of England, and from the very beginning of his reign you tried to drive a wedge between King Henry and myself.”
Eleanor, who felt she had just trod upon a nest of writhing serpents, could not wholly deny his accusations, at least in the way she had felt about Thomas. She tried to keep her voice steady. “I have always respected you, Your Grace, whatever my personal feelings. When Henry officially banished you—only after you fled England, if I may remind Your Grace—I told him it was wrong. Banishment, I said, is not the way to reconcile the differences between you.” She resumed her seat.
“So you say. For all I know it was you who turned the king against me!”
He knew for a fact this was not the case, and Eleanor realized she must terminate the interview at once. “There is no more to be said. Now I think it is time you left.”
“I am on my way, madam.” Thomas rose, reminding her now of a giant black raven as he hovered above her. “I had hoped that you still retained some influence with the king, but I see that what I have heard must be true.”
Eleanor felt a chill run through her despite the warmth of the chamber. She had a vague inkling that he was about to come to an underlying purpose of this meeting. Something he had held in reserve if matters did not go as he wished.
She rose again to face him. “What do you mean?”
A fleeting grimace crossed Thomas’s bloodless lips. “I am the last person who wishes to bring you ill news.”
Eleanor braced herself. “If you are capable of speaking the truth, I am capable of hearing it.”
“Since you insist. It has come to my attention that your husband, no stranger to the charms of Venus as I am sure you will agree, has recently taken up with a young maiden—although I doubt she is a maid any longer—of good family.” He paused expectantly.
Eleanor kept every muscle of her body absolutely still, freezing an expression of polite interest on her face.
“The king, so I hear, is besotted as a young lad with this creature, moonstruck with calf love, and has openly installed her at his castle in Woodstock.”
After absorbing the first shock of revelation, Eleanor rejected Thomas’s tale. It was too ridiculous, a lie designed to hurt her.
“Her name, I understand, is Rosamund de Clifford,” Thomas continued, his eyes never leaving her face. “Her father, a well-respected knight of Viking heritage, fought in the king’s campaign against the Welsh last year. He has holdings somewhere near Hereford. My sympathies, madam, I know how humiliating this must be for you.” He paused again. “This looks to be a more serious business than his—ah—earlier indiscretions.”
A tight steel band wound itself around Eleanor’s head. Her heart constricted in her chest so that she could not get a breath.
“This is either a complete falsehood”—she gasped, fighting off the terrible possibility that Thomas might be speaking the truth. Hadn’t Henry said something to her about Hereford?—or some wild rumor you have repeated out of personal spite and jealousy.”
He gave her a pitying glance. “Come, madam, you are neither a fool nor naïve enough to believe that I would not keep myself informed of everything that goes on in England. Why should I lie when the truth serves me so well?”
If Thomas had taken a dagger and twisted the point into her breast, he could not have wounded her more deeply. Death must feel exactly like this, she thought. He walked slowly to the door and opened it, then turned. In agony Eleanor tried to scream at him that she did not believe a single word, but speech was locked in her throat. Knowing he had drawn blood, a satisfied smile played about Thomas’s lips while he watched her struggle helplessly to regain control.
“I doubt you believe this, madam, but when I came here it was for the reason I gave: to urge you to intercede with your husband on my behalf. Truly, it was not my intention to cause you pain.” He paused. “Indeed, that has been an entirely unexpected pleasure.”
In the next moment he was gone.