A SENNIGHT AFTER HIS confrontation with Eleanor at Beaumont, Henry made preparations to leave for the Continent and hold his Easter court at Angers. In Eleanor’s absence as regent the number of uprisings in Poitou had increased, due, Henry suspected, to the bumbling ineffectiveness of Ralph de Faye. Eleanor’s uncle was immediately replaced; reinforcements were sent to Poitiers and the border regions of Anjou and Maine. With God’s grace, the situation would hold until his own arrival.
Following Eleanor’s request, Henry had remained at Beaumont and ordered Rosamund de Clifford to be taken to Godstow, where she would remain indefinitely—happy to be there, he did not doubt. He was surprised by how much he missed her. He was also surprised at Eleanor’s apparent lack of concern over the growing conflict in Aquitaine. He had expected and wanted her to return immediately and take up her post as regent in Angers where she could keep an eye on the situation. But she showed no inclination to leave England. At her request, the younger children had been sent for and were now installed at Beaumont. Thus, at least on the surface of things, harmony once more reigned in the household. If Eleanor seemed not quite her usual loving self, more withdrawn and quicker to take offense than was her wont, that was certainly understandable. Early days yet. Henry allowed himself to hope that in time she would weather the storm. He only wished he could say the same of Richard.
Although they had never had a close relationship, the boy was now openly hostile to him and spoke only when Henry asked a question. Even then his response was sullen. Because Henry felt he understood the unfortunate circumstances—it was unwise of Eleanor to have exposed Richard to their quarrels—he paid particular attention to his second son, offering to teach him how to fly a hawk and show him a few tricks at the quintain. But the boy spurned all efforts to make amends. Eleanor’s influence, of course. Not that she had deliberately turned her son against his father, but since the upset over Rosamund, Richard had become overly protective of his mother. Often Henry had observed Richard’s fierce blue gaze following his mother’s movements or conversation with a possessive regard.
“I think it is time Richard was sent away to be trained,” was the way he had broached the subject to Eleanor.
“Next year, perhaps.”
“I suggest he should go sooner than that. He is now nine years of age and has always been strongly attached to you, but it has grown worse.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Eleanor glanced at him with a cool expression. “I am his mother, of course he is attached.”
“It is rather more than that, Nell. And, as you know, it is the custom with younger sons to send them elsewhere to be trained.”
“Richard is not simply some ‘younger son.’ Harry, as the eldest, will be king of England, duke of Normandy, and count of Anjou. Richard is the second son and as such will be duke of Aquitaine. In a year or so, when I think he is ready, I will send him to Poitiers for training and exposure to his future subjects.”
Henry curbed his irritation. “It has not yet been decided that Richard will be duke of Aquitaine, and I was not thinking of sending him to Poitou.”
Eleanor raised her brows. “It has been decided by me that he will be duke. And to my knowledge I am still duchess of Aquitaine. Where did you think of sending him?”
“To one of the castles belonging to John the marshal.”
She turned on him with a look of outrage. “Do you think I would let any son of mine be trained under that brutal foulmouthed boor? You must be mad. Richard is sensitive, gifted, and—and needs special attention.”
“He is also turning into a monster, Nell. In truth, he quite frightens me. The boy is able—more than able—to fend for himself and needs to be weaned from you.” He did not say that what really troubled him was the sense that Richard was also turning into his enemy.
“Do you say I am turning him into a monster?” Her eyes flashed.
“No one has accused you of any such thing.”
“I will see to Richard, Henry, never fear.”
Henry held his tongue. It was true that despite his thorny personality, Richard was particularly gifted. Not at his lessons, unfortunately, although he managed to get by. But he was fearless and bold, possessing all the skills and qualities of a formidable knight-to-be, even a leader of men. He also had a natural bent for the gai saber, according to Eleanor and the troubadours she had imported from Aquitaine to teach him. Against his better judgment, Henry decided not to pursue the question of Richard. It was not the moment to risk another quarrel.
Eleanor was pleasant enough when they parted, although she looked pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Tension between them still remained, and the atmosphere felt oppressive, like thunder before a storm. As God was his witness, he had done all that he could. Time would have to do the rest. “You don’t look well, and I am concerned.” Which was true enough.
“It’s nothing. Just a chill on the stomach,” she said, kissing him on both cheeks.
“Take care of yourself. You will join me soon?”
“Soon.”
He bid farewell to his children and left Beaumont on Palm Sunday. Sorely tempted to visit Rosamund at Godstow before quitting Oxfordshire, Henry knew he could not chance it. Instead, he swung by Woodstock and ordered the steward to see that the grounds at nearby Everswell were cleared, the cot and sheds rebuilt. One day they might be needed, he told himself, and what harm was there in being prepared?
En route to Southampton, Henry intended to visit his son and heir, Prince Harry, whose household was established at Westminster in London as befitted the heir to England’s throne. He had seen the boy only briefly when he had visited Beaumont for a few days. Harry had been under the care and tutelage of Thomas—when he had been chancellor of England—and Henry was curious to how the boy fared at his lessons in Thomas’s absence.
Accompanied by John the marshal and the earl of Leicester, Henry was in an affable mood. It was a fair April day with silvery blue skies, the countryside burgeoning with tender green shoots and birdsong filling the air. God’s eyes! There was no denying it, he was glad to be on the move again.
They arrived at Westminster the following day, just after sext. Young Harry, now eleven, and growing more handsome by the day, was eager to show his father his prowess at the quintain and at sword practice. The boy’s charm could melt wax and he was a delight to be with, but Henry, after consulting his tutor, was dismayed to learn that he was uninterested in his lessons and did very poorly at them.
“Because the boy pours all his energies into skill at arms and the hunt?” asked Henry. When the tutor nodded, he shrugged. “Natural enough at his age.”
Still, Henry could not help but remember how eagerly he had applied himself to his studies at a similar age.
After praising his son for an impressive display at the quintain, he asked casually, “Can you define knowledge for me?”
“Knowledge?” Harry, obviously basking in the sunlight of his father’s approval, looked blank. The smile faded from his face.
“Come now, Master Harry,” coaxed the tutor. “We have been over this many times. Knowledge is? . . .”
Harry’s look of bewilderment deepened.
“He lacks aptitude,” said the tutor, shaking his head.
“Remember, my son, the words of the great Alfred: ‘Unlettered king, crowned ass.’ Lessons are important.”
Harry bit his lip. “But if I know how to fight battles and win wars, isn’t that important too?”
“Of course. But as future king your task will be to prevent wars not seek them. No country prospers except in times of peace. If it is a question of defending your borders or putting down rebellions, that is a different matter.” Henry patted his son on the head. “To deal justly with your subjects requires the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of Job. These are the qualities that will make you a good king.”
The prince nodded and smiled, kissed his father warmly, and ran off. Had he listened to a single word? Henry watched his son join his little wife, Marguerite, the eldest daughter of Louis of France by the French king’s second marriage. Although married at age seven, it would be some years yet before the union between Harry and Marguerite would be consummated. But it was touching to see them together. The marriage would be a successful one; the signs were all there. Marguerite had a younger sister, Alais, and Henry was seriously considering a betrothal between Richard and the French princess. Two of his sons married to daughters of the French crown was a tantalizing prospect. And should anything happen to Louis’s only son, still a babe and sickly by all reports, Harry and Marguerite might well rule France after King Louis’s death.
“You must awaken in him a love of learning,” Henry said firmly to the tutor. “Aptitude or not.”
“I will continue to try, Your Grace,” replied the tutor in a sour voice, “but I cannot make bricks out of straw.”
Henry sighed in frustration.
The following morning after prime, Henry left Westminster to see his misbegotten son, Geoffrey, at Tower Royal. The boy had been conceived before he married Eleanor and was thus, strictly speaking, the eldest of all his children. Along the way, he made a detour. Accompanied by four men-at-arms carrying staves, he wound his way down Newgate Street, covered with mud and stinking to high heaven from refuse and ordure. The passage was so narrow that only a blue ribbon of sky was visible between the gabled roofs of wooden houses. Henry had dressed plainly in scuffed black boots, worn brown cloak, and an old green hunting cap so he would not be easily recognized. This unlikely garb was the despair of his council members and ministers who thought he should always look like a royal monarch. But he preferred to follow what Thomas Becket had taught him long ago, when Thomas was chancellor of England and Henry newly ascended to the throne.
“Learn to know the subjects you will rule,” Thomas had said to him. “If you go among them in the guise of an ordinary citizen you will see people as they are, not as they want you to see them. Especially in London, the heart of England.”
It was sound advice then, and was still sound. Remembering such moments—and there had been many—Henry felt again a deep sense of loss. How often he had ridden through these same streets, Thomas beside him, taking the measure of his people. Henry retreated from thoughts of the former archbishop and put his attention on the immediate surroundings. The gray hulk of St. Paul’s loomed on his right; St. Martin le Grand on the left. Now he was crossing Milk Street, the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow starting to chime, joined by other bells calling the faithful to tierce. Here was Cheapside, where he was almost deafened by the noise from the booths selling goods, the rumble of carts bringing fresh produce into the city, the cries of the street sellers hawking their wares. The air was thick with smoke from the artisans at work in their stalls, fragrant with the combined odor of hot meat pies and roasting chestnuts from a nearby cook shop. Henry drew rein and dismounted at a booth selling cloth, carefully examining the bolts of burnet wool, damask, and sendal, then proceeded to inspect a stall that sold leather goods. The leather merchant proudly held up boots from Morocco and Spain.
“Fine quality.” Henry first sniffed then ran his hand over a wine-colored boot that looked to be about his size.
“For you, my lord, I will sell these boots at a bargain,” said the merchant in Norman-French, glancing up at him with cunning black eyes.
“I know what the boots are worth, mind, so don’t take me for an easy mark.”
“Heaven forefend.” The merchant closed one eye. “It is obvious that my lord is an expert on leather goods.”
“How is it obvious, you old rogue?”
“Because my lord comes by his knowledge naturally.” The merchant laid a finger against his nose. “I was born and bred in Falaise, where it is not forgotten that tanner’s blood runs in my lord’s veins.”
Henry shouted with laughter, not at all put out at being recognized. “Well said. Now if we can agree on price—”
They haggled cheerfully and when they came to an agreement, Henry handed the man some silver coins and the boots were stuffed into his saddlebag. After he had left, Henry continued smiling to himself at the merchant’s wit. His great-great-grandmother, the Conqueror’s mother, had been the humble daughter of a tanner in Falaise, and it was while she was washing skins in the river that the mighty Duke Robert of Normandy had first glimpsed her. Struck by her beauty he made her his mistress, never dreaming that their bastard son, William, would one day become duke of Normandy and the Conqueror of England.
Henry next stopped at a stall where hot pork pasties were being sold, and bought one for three copper pennies. It had been a long time—too long, Henry realized—since he had ridden through the streets of his capital like this, informing himself firsthand on the price of goods, tasting the food sold, and listening to people talk.
“Very tasty.” Henry swallowed a bit of crust. “But I notice this pasty is a halfpenny more than it was a year ago. Why is that?”
The man selling the pasties, heavyset with a bulbous nose, scowled. “I has to protect meself, doesn’t I? Trouble between archbishop and king, who knows where it end, see? Might be another civil war. We all needs something put by if hard times come.”
“Civil war?” Henry stared at him incredulously, wiping meat juice off his chin with his sleeve. “Come, you cannot believe that.”
“Anything be possible, me lord, when king banish primate. Especially when it be Tom Becket, one o’ us commonfolk, born and raised right here in Cheapside. Reckon we all knows what happen if he not here in time—” He stopped abruptly, crossed himself, then made the ancient sign of horns to ward off evil.
A chill ran through Henry. Not here in time for what? “You don’t think the king is within his rights then to demand that an archbishop obey the laws of the land?”
A spice merchant from the next booth, who had been eavesdropping on the conversation, approached them along with two of his customers. “’Course king be within his rights, milord. No one be above the law. But the right not all be on one side or t’other. Naught do get solved by primate being treated like a wolf’s head, do it?”
There was a chorus of agreement.
“King should bring him back,” said the vendor of pasties. “His doom come soon enough.”
“Whose doom?” Henry raised his brows.
“Tom Becket going to substitute—” The spice merchant silenced him with a jab in the ribs.
Henry sensed an undercurrent that made him uneasy. “You talk in riddles.”
No one spoke; their faces became shuttered.
Finally the spice merchant said, “If archbishop not obey the law, neither do king. Taking over Church lands be no better than theft.”
“Hear! That be true,” someone called out.
They were very well informed. The lands in question, which belonged to the See of Canterbury, had been taken over by the crown partly in the heat of the moment, partly out of revenge for Thomas’s defiance. But Henry knew he could hardly say that.
“Perhaps Church property was confiscated in order to set an example,” he conceded. “But a strong king, one who keeps the peace and executes swift justice, is more important to your prosperity than a primate who puts the weal of Holy Church before that of king and country. Before your welfare.”
The spice merchant nodded. “We all agrees to that. We knows king can’t be spared, that be why archbishop needed—”
Henry frowned. Spared what? Noting that a small crowd had gathered around them, and not wanting to risk recognition, Henry quickly finished his pasty.
“Thank you for sharing your views with me. Most informative. A good day to you.” He mounted his stallion and rode on, uncomfortably aware that these Londoners knew something he didn’t.
Off to the right, he glimpsed the river and trotted toward it. The stench from the fish and poultry stalls almost made him choke, as did the rotting corpse of a brown dog swarming with maggots. This was a rougher part of the city, where cutpurses and pickpockets plied their trade, and taverns and brothels abounded. Craftsmen, prentices, whores in their striped cloaks, and sailors flown with ale so crowded the streets that he could hardly ride through. His escort of men-at-arms was some ways behind him now. From out of the mass of people darted a red-eyed beggar covered in filth who pulled at his horse’s bridle, whining for alms. Henry slipped a few pennies into the gnarled hand.
“Bless ye, me lord, may God bless ye,” the beggar called after him.
A brisk wind blew off the river; gray clouds clustered on the western horizon. South toward the Strand, where the wooden bridge spanned the Thames River, a crowd had gathered. Curious, he pulled to a stop. In the midst of the throng a juggler in particolored hose, his face half covered with a black mask, juggled five silver balls with impressive dexterity. Henry applauded along with everyone else. When a small boy passed around a cap, Henry dropped two pennies into it. The juggler laid the balls aside, then began to turn handsprings one after the other with such speed and grace that the crowd gasped. People made a path for him as he bounced his way toward Henry, landing on his feet beside the horse.
“You have stolen my kerchief, good sir, fie, fie upon you!” The juggler’s arm shot out and pulled from Henry’s cloak a green silken kerchief.
Henry joined the crowd’s laughter. “That was well done.”
“Thank you. Such praise from the king—” The juggler made an elaborate bow.
So much for his disguise, Henry thought, then stiffened. The juggler must have been overheard, because people began to eye them with suspicion and mutter uneasily among themselves. There was a ripple of underlying menace, and Henry had the feeling it would not take much for these folk to turn ugly.
“Is it really the king, then?” someone called out.
A frisson of alarm ran down Henry’s spine and he looked over his shoulder. Staves at the ready, his men were trying to push through the crowd.
“Bring back Thomas o’ London,” a voice shouted.
“Aye, bring the primate back,” another voice echoed. Soon the crowd was surging toward him, arms raised threateningly, calling for Thomas to be brought back. In a moment Henry was surrounded.
He groped for his sword hilt swinging in its sheath beside the saddle, ready to defend himself alone if need be.
The juggler held up his arms. “No, no, good people, you quite mistook me! I was about to say that such praise from the king would sound no better in my ears than this fellow’s.” He pointed a long finger at Henry. “I ask you, how could he be the king? Look at him, as plainly dressed as one of you. That cloak has surely seen better days. And his boots, scuffed and worn, are a disgrace. A poor king indeed, I say!”
The crowd fell back, uncertain. The juggler turned a few more handsprings then plucked a live mouse from under a man’s cap. Diverted, the crowd roared and the moment of danger passed. The juggler pranced about in front of Henry’s horse, leading him out of the crowd.
“Thank you,” said Henry, his mouth dry. “For a moment there—” he did not finish.
“But you were never in real danger, Your Grace,” said the juggler in a soft voice. “Your hour has not come.”
Henry’s heart jumped. “How can you know the hour of my death?”
“I don’t. Only that it is not now, because another will die for you. Blood must be shed, a sacrifice is required. But you will be spared. Use your time well.”
He made the sign of horns, laughed, and sprinted back into the crowd. An instant later he had vanished.
Shaken, Henry continued on his way to Tower Royal, one of the royal residences on the opposite side of London from Westminster. The juggler’s words had made no more sense than the merchants’ gibberish. But these hints and warnings, these strange forecasts were chilling. Henry wasn’t certain he wanted to know more.
In a few moments he had thrust the incident to the back of his mind, except for the realization that the former archbishop of Canterbury was far more popular in London than he had previously thought. If Thomas was causing trouble on the Continent, what vile mischief might he do at home? He must be kept out of England.
It was approaching twilight when Henry entered the gates of Tower Royal. He came upon his son in a chamber, perched atop a stool in front of a small oak table. Twelve years old, solidly built and russet-haired, a younger version of himself, Geoffrey’s gray eyes lit up like a candle when he saw Henry. His tutor, seated across from him, was reading aloud from a Latin text.
“God save us, monotonous as plainsong. Sounds like Cicero, if memory serves,” Henry said, dismissing the tutor with a wave of his hand. He gave the boy a keen look. “What ails you, my son?”
The boy shook his head, forcing a smile while he blinked back tears.
“Come, tell me. Are you unhappy?”
“Not now. I am just glad to see you, Father.”
“Are you?” Henry laughed, lifting Geoffrey from the stool and into his arms. “Are you indeed. No more glad than I to see you.” It had been more than a year. He set the boy on his feet. “God’s eyes, how you’ve grown. One day soon you will quite dwarf me.” He kissed him on both cheeks. “Are you being well treated?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“But you’re lonely?”
Geoffrey nodded.
Why wouldn’t he be? Henry thought. His mother, a former whore whom Henry had once cared for, was in an enclosed convent; his half-siblings lived elsewhere; and his father was almost always absent.
“Tell me,” said Henry, not wanting to dwell on this painful subject, “what have you been doing since I last saw you?”
“I’ve been busy with lessons.” Geoffrey wiped his eyes and climbed back onto the stool.
“Busy with lessons, eh? Well then, one can assume you’ve learned something. Define knowledge for me.”
“The trivium—grammar, rhetoric, and dialectic; the quadrivium—arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, music; law—both civil and canon; and medicine.”
“Good. Does your tutor combine dialectic with any of the others?”
“Oh yes.”
Henry began to pace the chamber. “When studying, let us say, a text on rhetoric, tell me the three stages of meaning and explain them.”
“The historia, or literal sense; the allegoria or doctrine; and finally the sententia, or moral implication.”
“Very good. Have you started on any theology yet?”
“Just a little. My tutor is going through Peter Lombard’s Liber sententiarum. It’s—”
“A collection of moral and doctrinal questions for use in discussion. I’m familiar with it.” Henry came to rest beside his son. “I’m very impressed, Geoffrey. You have the makings of a fine scholar.”
Geoffrey grew pink with pleasure.
“More than ready for St. Paul’s school, I’d say. You would hardly be lonely there, and the Augustinian canons are fine educators. It is where—” Just in time he stopped himself from saying it was where Thomas Becket had been educated. “I’ll talk to your tutor about it. With your abilities, you should rise swiftly in the church.”
He was surprised to see a look of dismay cross Geoffrey’s face. “Well, you see, the thing is—” He swallowed. “I really want to be a knight, Father, and fight for you.”
Henry smiled and stroked his son’s hair. “All my other sons will no doubt be knights and warriors, in addition to being great lords, of course. I’d like at least one to be a scholar.” He looked down into the wide pewter eyes so like his own. “Also—and this is most important—I can guarantee you an excellent career in the church. Any blockhead with bulging muscles can tilt a lance, Geoffrey, but it takes someone exceptional to become, let us say, a bishop?” The latter was not altogether true, but he wanted to soften this blow to his son’s hopes.
The look of keen disappointment on Geoffrey’s face almost persuaded Henry to change his mind, but he held firm. In time the lad would make the best of it. What Henry had not said was that life as an ecclesiastic would also protect Geoffrey from his half brothers when they came to power—especially Richard—who would not be threatened by a bastard sibling in Holy Orders, devoted to a life in the Church.
“You won’t be sorry, my boy, I promise you. One day, in truth, you will thank me.”
Geoffrey nodded and gave him a tremulous smile. Moved, Henry hugged him tightly. The bells rang for vespers and Henry joined Geoffrey for the evening service. There was a great deal on his mind and his thoughts wandered to Eleanor and Rosamund, the conflict with Thomas, how to subdue the rebellious nobles on the Continent . . . Henry yawned as the service drew to a close.
Once he would have consulted Thomas on such issues. At the moment, there was no one to whom he could turn. His gaze fell upon the bowed head of the boy kneeling beside him, who never complained, who asked for nothing, and was willing to bloom where he was planted. His most beloved misbegotten Geoffrey. Child of his heart.