SUNLIGHT STREAMING IN THROUGH the stained-glass windows of the church of the Abbey of Westminster struck sparks from the gems studding the gold crown poised above Harry’s head. Moist-eyed, Henry, seated in the forefront of the church on this most auspicious fourteenth day of June, felt he had waited a lifetime for this event.
A prey to mingled emotions of nostalgia, relief, and triumph, Henry was reminded of his own coronation sixteen years earlier. The aroma of incense, the sight of candle flames flickering on the altar, the choir of raised voices echoing across the great nave, the sound of his son’s solemn vows to protect the customs of the kingdom and guard the church, all brought back glowing memories. He saw his mother, the empress Maud, her face suffused with tears and pride; the smiling countenance of his old justiciar, Robert de Beaumont; and the tall figure of the cleric who would become chancellor of England, Thomas Becket. He could see Eleanor, big with child—the same child being crowned at the very moment—her face radiant with joy and love. The image was so strong, Henry felt a lump in his throat. Every detail of that great day was etched in memory as clearly as a brushstroke on vellum.
And now his mother and de Beaumont were dead; Thomas was his enemy; he and Eleanor, estranged. At this moment of supreme triumph, his posterity secure, he was alone. Eleanor had been expected to attend this coronation, and when she had not appeared, Henry could only surmise that someone had finally told her that Rosamund was installed at Everswell. Obviously she was determined to make him pay for it even if it meant hurting Harry as well. It was a slight Henry did not intend to forget or forgive. Not only should Eleanor be sitting beside him, he thought resentfully, the archbishop of Canterbury should be the one crowning his son.
Despite the fact that it was his own doing, Henry was painfully aware that the piglike face and slitted eyes belonging to Roger, archbishop of York, were all wrong to officiate at this coronation. Henry sensed that the packed crowd of witnesses also found Thomas’s absence conspicuous. Certainly the bishops of London, Salisbury, Durham, and Rochester who acted as York’s assistants all wore long faces, obviously disapproving of this drastic change in precedence. God’s eyes! Just the sight of their mitered heads brought back the frustration he had felt at the prelates’ initial refusal to officiate at the proceedings.
“This is a grievous breach of canon law, my lord king,” the bishop of London, one of his staunch supporters, had said. “I have no love for Thomas Becket, but the crowning of a king is not in York’s gift.”
“I have papal permission for the archbishop of York to crown my son,” Henry had countered, “and the Holy Father’s envoys have assured me it is still valid.”
“Their assurance is as worthless as the parchment you hold, which the pope, under duress at the time, signed two years ago.” The elderly bishop of Durham stabbed an accusing finger at him. “That permission has since been superseded, as I suspect you already know.”
“I know nothing but what I hold in my hand,” Henry said, rattling the parchment for emphasis, “and I do not give credence to rumors.”
“It is more than just rumor that Thomas recently persuaded the pope to issue another document which excommunicates York and any bishop who aids him in the coronation,” Durham replied testily.
“It also threatens to put all England under interdict if York disobeys His Holiness,” added the bishop of Salisbury, crossing himself.
Henry, well aware of the more recent papal missive, repressed a flutter of anxiety. “Can you show me evidence of this so-called document? Who has possession of it?”
“It is on its way to England; in truth it should have been here by now,” the bishop of Rochester said, exchanging a glance with his peers.
“If you cannot show me this new document, what I possess must still stand as the pope’s last word. And if the missive arrives after the coronation, too late to be implemented, Your Graces surely cannot be blamed for that.” Henry hoped he sounded more certain than he felt. “Who would dare excommunicate you under such circumstances?”
Henry was sure the bishops knew that he had issued strict precautions to circumvent the delivery of any documents bearing the papal seal. For the past fortnight all the Cinque Ports had been under constant scrutiny in England, and the ports on the Continent as well. Anyone in clerical garb who had attempted to take ship to England, or if they slipped through that net and landed on English soil, was detained and searched.
In the end, against their better judgment, he had persuaded the prelates to aid and abet him. Now an expectant hush fell on the crowd as the archbishop of York lowered the crown to rest upon Harry’s head. Henry closed his eyes. Thanks be to God and all His saints! It was done! His son was now officially king of England. When he opened his eyes, Harry was slowly walking down the chancel steps, radiant in gold cloth and white ermine. The kingdom was safe, and should anything happen to Henry there would be another monarch already in place.
Outside Westminster bannered horns sounded, and the commonfolk waiting since cockcrow to see the new king ride to and from his crowning cheered lustily. In a few moments the crowd would be treated to casks of wine imported from Gascony, barrels of brown ale from local vintners, and whole roasted oxen and lamb. Henry had also arranged for word to be spread that this bounty came from the new king, the “young king” as he was now to be called.
Later that day, at the feast he had arranged in Harry’s honor, Henry himself served the boy as page, a mark of the exalted state to which he had elevated his son. After carving a haunch of venison, he handed his son a slice, then passed him a silver bowl of water. As the boy dipped his fingers, Henry said in jest, “How often do you find a king waiting upon his son like a squire? An unusual occurrence to say the least.”
The young king’s voice rang out clearly. “Do you find it so, my lord? I do not think it unusual for the son of a count, who is lower in rank, to wait upon the son of a king.”
Henry could not believe his ears. The nobles and prelates at the high table looked at the young king in dismay and an appalled silence followed. For an instant Henry saw his son plain, and the terrible significance of what he had just done by creating two kings in England assailed him with all the force of a Channel gale. In the next moment he thrust aside his doubts and stifled his qualms. The boy was overwhelmed, shaken by the solemnity of the occasion, and knew not what he said. He had done the right thing. Of course he had.
“Henry, what is a flamen?” Rosamund looked at him from the corner of her eye, sure that he must hear the drumming of her heart it beat so loudly.
Her fingers smoothed the feathers of the young wounded hawk she was holding. It was barely a sennight after the crowning of Henry’s son—the young king, she must remember to call him—and she and Henry were seated on a stone bench in the garden at Everswell on a warm afternoon in late June. Although Rosamund had seen Henry for brief periods over the past month, he had been so preoccupied with the coronation she had not dared to bring up the subject. He had just returned from having taken the young king to Winchester; his sons Richard and Geoffrey had left for the Continent. This was the first opportunity she had to ask him without putting undue significance on the question.
“Flamen, flamen.” Henry pursed his lips. “You know, it sounds familiar, in fact I’m sure I’ve heard the term before, but I can’t quite place it. Why?”
“I heard two women talking about a flamen last market day in the village.” She mustered what she hoped was an innocent expression. “When I asked them what it meant they became quite agitated and wouldn’t tell me, so I became curious.”
Henry raised his brows, and Rosamund couldn’t tell whether he believed her or not. “It will come to me in time—God’s eyes! Is that a live worm you’re feeding that bird?”
“That’s all it will eat. Some larger bird, another hawk most likely, plucked out one of its eyes and it injured a wing when it fell.” The hawk finally opened its beak and Rosamund dropped the worm inside. She lifted the bird and gently put it back into the crude wooden cage she and Hildi had made for it.
Henry stretched his arms. “So peaceful here, poppet.” The bench was set against a young apple tree, the boughs filled with white and pink blossoms, and Henry rested his head contentedly against the dark trunk.
Rosamund knelt beside the bench and began to weed around the edges of a rose bush coming into bud with pale-pink flowers. Henry idly reached out a hand and stroked her forehead. She enjoyed his gestures of affection and responded by arching her neck like a cat.
“How long can you stay?”
“I must return to Normandy within the sennight. I had hoped to start training Harry myself in the craft of kingship, but it must wait. Meanwhile, I’ve put him in the hands of able counselors who will ensure he learns well, I doubt not.”
His voice lacked real conviction, Rosamund thought, patting down the moist earth where she had plucked out a handful of weeds, and she could see why. Although well liked, the young king had never struck her as a potential leader of men; it was difficult to envision him ever ruling England on his own. She couldn’t suppress a shiver at the thought of the young king as a possible substitute sacrifice.
“Why must you return to Normandy so soon?” she asked. “Is it to do with Louis of France? Has he resumed hostilities?”
“Certainly Louis’s nose is twisted out of joint because I did not crown his daughter Marguerite at the same time I crowned my son.” Henry laughed and closed his eyes again. “Let him stew. So long as Marguerite is not officially crowned queen of England, I have a hold over the French King that will ensure he complies with our treaty.”
At the moment, Rosamund did not greatly care about the political upheavals in Henry’s realm. She only wanted to keep him talking until she could find a way to jog his memory on the subject of the flamen. Odd that on this balmy day, with a soft wind blowing through the white blossoms of the hawthorn tree, she would be so preoccupied with blood and sacrifice.
“In truth, there is a lessening of hostilities in my domains,” Henry was saying. “Even Aquitaine has quieted down. Though for how long is anybody’s guess.” He paused. “I believe the Aquitainians would die of boredom without their rebellions, treachery, and intrigue. Sometimes it seems to me even Eleanor thrives on it.”
“I am surprised she didn’t attend the coronation.”
“It caused much speculation, I have little doubt.” There was such bitter emotion in his voice that Rosamund looked up sharply. Henry’s eyes were wide open now, gazing into the green distance. After a moment, he continued. “In truth, neither unrest nor Louis is the reason I must return to the Continent.”
“Then it must be Thomas Becket.” Henry’s main concerns were always either to do with Thomas, Louis, or Eleanor and Aquitaine.
“Indeed. Thomas will be beside himself with fury over York’s officiating at the coronation. He threatened to excommunicate all who were involved and to put all England under interdict, would you believe?” He let out his breath in an exasperated sigh.
Rosamund gasped, her stomach plummeting at the terrible possibility. Every church door would be nailed shut, the faithful would be deprived of the sacraments, marriages forbidden to take place, and the dying forced to leave this life unshriven. The prospect was so terrifying that for a moment she actually felt unable to breathe, and crossed herself with trembling fingers.
“Can you prevent—” she began.
“God’s eyes, it will never happen.” Rosamund was amazed to see a mischievous smile play across Henry’s lips. “Now that I’ve had my way and demonstrated to everyone, including Thomas, that I’m not to be trifled with, I can afford to show humility. When I return to the Continent, I intend to claim that the Holy Father’s missive forbidding York to crown my son never reached me.”
“Did it?”
Henry slid her a sideways glance. “That is between me and my conscience. I will heap ashes on my head and dress in sackcloth, if that is required, and behave most contritely, vowing to submit to any penance the pope demands.”
Greatly relieved, Rosamund could not help but laugh at the image of the great Henry of England covered in sackcloth and ashes.
From the direction of the castle came the sound of dogs barking.
“Visitors!” Henry sat up straight and brushed back his hair.
A few moments later several deerhounds bounded into the garden wagging their tails. Henry’s misbegotten son Geoffrey followed, with young John trotting beside him. Henry smiled broadly, holding out his arms, and John ran over to him.
“John insisted on coming with me,” said Geoffrey with a bow. He smiled at Rosamund.
“John is welcome wherever I am.” Henry lifted the boy onto his knee, hugged him, and kissed him soundly on both cheeks.
Rosamund rose to her feet, brushing the dirt off of her blue kirtle. “How are you, Master John?”
The dark impudent eyes Rosamund remembered were not actively hostile toward her but neither were they friendly. The boy gave her a brief smile, then wriggled free of his father’s embrace and began to explore the garden.
“I came to pay my respects, Father,” said Geoffrey. “I must return to St. Paul’s tomorrow morning.”
Henry yawned. “I will ride back to London with you. I have some business to attend to at Westminster before leaving for Southampton.”
There was a sudden frantic chirping and Rosamund saw that John had opened the little wooden cage and was poking at the wounded hawk with a sharp twig.
“The bird is hurt,” said Rosamund, thinking that the boy had not realized the hawk’s condition. “He has a wing that’s mending and only one eye.”
“I see that.” John reached for the hawk, who darted outside the cage in terror. He pointed his twig at the other eye.
“Leave the hawk be, John,” said Geoffrey.
“If I put out the other eye, would he walk ’round and ’round in circles?”
There was a sick feeling in Rosamund’s stomach. She ran over to the screeching hawk, put it back in the cage, and carried the cage over to the shed that stood on the edge of the garden plot, placing it well out of the boy’s reach.
John screwed up his eyes and thrust his jaw forward in a pugnacious manner that reminded her of his father. “You can’t take him away when I was playing with him.”
“He’s my bird, not yours, Master John, and I do not permit cruelty to any living creature.”
“This house belongs to my father, not you, my tutor says. Who are you to tell me what to do? Only my father’s—”
Before he could finish, Geoffrey swooped John up in his arms and swung him onto his shoulders. “Enough of that.”
Henry looked embarrassed. “The boy meant no harm, Rosamund, he has no idea what he’s saying. You wouldn’t really have hurt the hawk, would you, my boy?”
“No, Father,” John replied in a glib voice.
Rosamund could see that Henry believed him, although it was obvious that John would have enjoyed tormenting the bird.
“Well.” Henry seemed at a loss for words. “Ah. Now, Geoffrey here is a great scholar, and will be able to answer your question,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “Rosamund wants to know what a flamen is.”
Geoffrey looked at her in surprise and set John on his feet while keeping a firm hold of his hand. “I believe flamens were similar to priests in ancient Rome.”
“Of course! I remember now.” Henry nodded. “Flamens were in service to a particular god, like Jupiter or Mars.”
It was the last thing Rosamund expected to hear. “You mean flamens have nothing to do with England?”
Henry spread his hands. “I can only speculate, but when the Romans established themselves in Britain, one could naturally assume they followed their own customs and beliefs, practicing their pagan rites here just as they did in Rome.”
Rosamund bit her lip in confusion. This was so totally unrelated to what Aude had told her, she did not know what to think. “But flamens would not be here now?” she persisted.
“Certainly not since the seventh century when Saint Augustine converted the land to Christianity,” Geoffrey replied.
“That is the logical assumption, of course, but not necessarily the accurate one.” Henry looked thoughtful. “The legacy of the Romans is still with us, remember, in the form of roads, aqueducts, and baths. Many of our laws have their basis in Roman law. Long-held religious beliefs and established customs are less plainly visible but may still linger in some form, existing side by side with the new.”
Rosamund stared at him. “How—how would that happen?”
“Who can say? But when Saint Augustine first came to Britain at the behest of the then pope with the express purpose of converting the pagans to Christianity, he wisely made no immediate attempt to abolish paganism but instead gradually merged it into the liturgy of the new Church. Isn’t that so, Geoffrey?”
Geoffrey nodded. “It is said that he converted old pagan temples to Christian purposes, and when he first established his metropolitan See at Canterbury, he used secular priests.”
“That would certainly be the way to go about it,” Henry added in an admiring tone. “Wherever there was a flamen of the old religion, you would found a bishopric. In that way, an archbishop, let us say, would eventually replace an archflamen. Good God, Rosamund, what is it? You’ve gone white as milk.”
Suddenly faint, Rosamund sank down on the bench beside him and covered her mouth with trembling fingers. She knew who the sacrifice would be.
On a hot July morning, five weeks after his son had been crowned, Henry rode into a lush green meadow at Fréteval in Maine to meet with Thomas Becket. Beneath the thickly leafed branches of the trees that bordered the meadow members of the Norman court stood with armed knights on horseback. Alone under the broiling sun, Henry waited on his Flemish charger, turning over in his mind the advice of his council members on how best to deal with the former archbishop.
“If you truly want to resolve matters, then it is essential you give him the Kiss of Peace,” the bishop of London had said, adding with a severe look, “I thought, my lord king, you had agreed to make amends after admitting your error in allowing York to crown your son? The threat of excommunication still hangs over those of us who aided you, remember, and England could still fall under interdict.”
“Sweet Jesu! There is a limit as to how far I am prepared to grovel,” Henry had protested. “Will Thomas agree to grant me absolute power in my domains without interference? Will he allow me to administer the law as I see fit, even though it treads on Canterbury’s toes?”
“As, by your own admission, you acted wrongly in the matter of the coronation, I believe it would be prudent to do as His Grace of London advises.” His justiciar, Richard de Lucy, had sided with the bishop.
“Yes, all right, all right, you’ve made your point,” Henry had grumbled.
But in truth Henry had not made his final decision. The Kiss of Peace was a symbolic act of forgiveness and reconciliation. It was not given lightly. After Thomas’s threats, and his near-successful attempt to prevent the coronation ceremony—if Roger of York had not been such a spineless favor-seeker Thomas would almost certainly have succeeded—Henry wondered if he could go through with this gesture of total acceptance. Despite the urgings of the Holy Father, Louis of France, and his own magnates to heal the breach with Thomas and allow him to return to England, the price seemed almost too high. Was he willing to pay it?
A cloud of dust rose against the brilliant blue sky and the horses whinnied, sensing other beasts approaching. Relief, irritation, and anxiety at the possible outcome all churned within his breast as Henry observed the knot of horsemen riding toward the meadow. Although still some distance away, he could see a tall figure in a cowled robe mounted on a dappled gray percheron, followed by mail-clad French nobles and black-robed prelates. Henry’s knees gripped the saddle and he gathered the reins tightly in one hand. The cowled rider spurred his mount into the meadow and Henry cantered forward to join him.
“Well met, Thomas. Do you come to tilt a lance with me or beseech me to do penance for my sins?”
His feeble attempt at jocularity was met with a brooding dark gaze. “As you can see, my lord king, I carry no lance. As for your repentance, dare one hope for such a remote possibility?”
Determined not to be baited, Henry allowed an expression of goodwill to cross his face. “You may judge for yourself. Let the years of conflict between us be ended once and for all. With God’s grace we can be as we were.” This was a bald-faced lie, for they could never go back to the past. “England needs you, old friend, I need you as well.”
Something that might be taken for a smile twitched at Thomas’s lips. “Be that as it may, nonetheless it was very wrong of you, my lord king, to allow York to crown your son. Not only was it a violation of canon law, I was personally wounded by this rash act. Especially as there is every reason to believe that someone received the pope’s injunction against the crowning and ignored the Holy Father’s orders.”
Henry made an attempt to look both mystified and innocent. “There is no record of anyone having received the papal missive. But the young—my son, I mean”—it would be prudent not to refer to Harry as the young king in Thomas’s presence—“the boy was desolate that you did not perform the ceremony. We were all so eager to ensure the succession that perhaps we did act rashly. An excess of zeal. Mea culpa.” He crossed himself. “Well, you know—none better, eh?—just how impetuous I can be? And as Roger of York was more than willing to accommodate my needs . . .”
Thomas looked at him in stony silence. Flies buzzing around Henry’s head were growing intolerable. It was also becoming unbearably hot.
“Am I to understand that you were misled by evil counselors in this matter, my lord king?”
Henry grasped at the straw being offered. He had not intended to point the finger at Roger, but better that York take the blame than him. In truth, it galled him that anyone should have to shoulder the blame! A king had the right to protect his domains as he saw fit.
“Evil counselors? That is putting it a bit strongly, perhaps.” Henry slapped at a fly on his nose, noting that none of the insects seemed to be lighting on Thomas. “But we will make amends, Thomas, for any breach of procedure. Harry will be crowned again, properly this time, with his wife, Marguerite, as well. Then you can resume the boy’s education in kingship. Who better to teach him the responsibilities of governing?”
Henry suspected that Thomas was not fooled by this face-saving device. Surely the archbishop was aware that he had recently had a nasty confrontation with Louis of France who had threatened to ravage the Vexin, the vital strip of land separating Normandy and France, to avenge the slight to Marguerite’s dignity. The hard-won peace treaty was at risk and Henry had assured Louis that he would crown both his son and his wife together as soon as Thomas returned to England.
“I have here a new letter from the pope permitting me to excommunicate that traitor York whose blind ambition, and hatred for me personally, has finally led to his undoing. And it includes those treacherous bishops who aided him.” Thomas patted the scrip at his waist as he scanned the meadow borders where several of these bishops waited. “Not to mention the right to put England under interdict.”
Henry stifled an angry retort. God’s eyes! Would nothing pacify this fanatic? “But you will surely overlook their behavior now? What’s done is done and you will perform the ceremony yourself this time. Come, let this be a time of reconciliation with no threats of punishment.”
“Is it wrong to punish those who defy God?” The hollow-cheeked face was twisted into a mask of righteous indignation.
“We must both make concessions.” Henry searched frantically for a way to appease Thomas. “I promise to see that the lands taken from Canterbury are restored to the status they had before your departure six years ago. And all the revenues reimbursed.” When there is money in the treasury to do so, he silently added. “Now one can’t say fairer than that, eh?”
“Do you offer me thirty pieces of silver?”
Sweat trickled down Henry’s face. This was starting to play like a Roman farce and he was growing impatient. It was becoming increasingly clear that Thomas had not come to accept his offers of peace but to harangue and bedevil him. In truth, Thomas himself was not there at all, only a gaunt haggard apparition that reminded Henry of a mad prophet ranting in the desert. All of a sudden he recalled what he had told Rosamund about heaping ashes on his head and behaving with abject humility if need be.
“Thomas, Thomas let us end our strife!” he cried. “I admit I have acted foolishly, but so have you. What would you have of me now? Can we not renew our old love for one another?”
In the space of a heartbeat, Thomas changed before his eyes. The desert madman vanished; someone resembling his old companion appeared. Tears sprang to the dark eyes as he slid from his horse, knelt in the long grass bright with yellow buttercups, and seized Henry’s hand, kissing it over and over. Then he stretched out both hands in the traditional gesture of homage.
Startled and moved, Henry dismounted and grasped Thomas’s shoulders in a formal embrace. This was the instant for him to raise Thomas up and give him the Kiss of Peace. While Henry struggled with himself, time slowed. Every detail of the moment became clear as a new-minted coin: the drumming of his heart, the French and Norman magnates watching with bated breath, the air drowsy with the scents of summer, and Thomas weeping on his knees. Finally Henry raised him up and embraced him again.
“Between us we will rule England as it should be ruled, old friend,” he said. He walked over to the dappled gray percheron and held out the stirrup. “Here. You mount first and I will help you.”
“My lord, my dear lord,” whispered Thomas, wiping his eyes. “I beg of you—” His ardent gaze bored into Henry’s.
For an instant Henry felt himself swayed. It would be so easy just to give him what he wanted. But he could not do it. Some knot of stubbornness at the core of his being refused to allow this final capitulation.
“I will help you to mount,” he repeated, his voice unsteady. “Let all see that I do you such honor, my lord archbishop.” It was the first time he had addressed Thomas by his title in six years.
Thomas’s shoulders slumped as he permitted himself to be helped into the saddle. This is a noble and most honorable gesture, Henry told himself. But it was not the Kiss of Peace. And everyone there knew it.
To Henry’s surprise, Thomas did not return immediately to England. Instead, over the next few months, he followed Henry around the Continent as he inspected castles in Normandy, Anjou, and Brittany.
“For someone who has fought tooth and nail to return to his See, the archbishop is dragging his heels,” Henry said to his advisors, although he knew perfectly well why Thomas delayed. He was still waiting for the Kiss of Peace, and for Henry to issue a public declaration of reconciliation. In truth, Thomas seemed afraid to return to England without these safeguards. There were moments, Henry acknowledged, when he was ashamed of his resistance, wrestling with himself over the questionable morality of his refusal.
By the end of September Henry agreed to meet with Thomas once again. This meeting would take place in the Loire valley at Chaumont on the edge of a wood near a small castle. Before their meeting, Henry, with some reluctance, wrote a letter to his son Harry in England instructing him to guarantee Thomas’s safety and restore the lost lands to Canterbury.
He read a copy of the letter aloud to Thomas as their horses stood neck to neck in a misty field. It was a gray morning with a threat of rain, but the woods were ablaze with scarlet, gold, and fawn-colored leaves. “Now do you feel safe enough to return, Thomas?”
“It relieves my mind. But I would rather have the Kiss of Peace from you, my lord king, than anything else. This would assure me of your continuing favor and confound my enemies.”
“Enemies? Where are they? Not in England, surely,” Henry scoffed. “When I return, you shall have what you wish, my solemn word on it. But here it goes against my honor, as though I am forced to give you the Kiss as the price of the settlement between us.”
He did not say that only when he was assured that Thomas would not put England under interdict or excommunicate the bishops who had helped crown Harry would he grant him the Kiss of Peace. Thomas would be less likely to take such actions on English soil. Unfortunately, the return of the old Thomas at Fréteval had been short-lived. The wild-eyed prophet who over the past months had dogged his footsteps like a petitioner was now firmly in place and Henry wondered how long he could endure this insufferable personality. With God’s grace, a return to favor would restore the old Thomas once again.
Thomas, his black robes flapping in the breeze, gazed morosely into the distance. “Perhaps it will go against your honor in England, too.”
“No, no.” Henry forced a smile. “It will be like old times, my friend. Wait and see.”
Thomas made no reply. The hawkish profile looked carved in granite.
“Go to England, Thomas. Go in peace. I will join you there.”
“When? When will you join me?”
“Soon. As soon as may be.”
“Why not go together, my lord?”
God’s eyes, the man was as importunate as a discarded mistress. Henry stifled an impatient sigh. “Perhaps we can. If possible I will meet you in Boulogne in November. If not there then in England.” He paused. “You have nothing to fear, Thomas. Harry will protect you.”
Their eyes met. “What I fear, my lord king, what my heart tells me, is that I shall see you no more in this life.”
“I would not judge you so harshly.”
A sudden gust of wind scattered leaves across the brown earth of the field. Henry wearily passed a hand across his brow. Dear God, how he wanted this to be over, finished, done! The long-suffering face, those accusing eyes, that martyred expression were sucking him dry.
“You have no right to judge me at all,” Thomas hissed. “I am surrounded by the forces of evil. Posterity will judge what I do.” His eyes burned like live coals.
He wheeled his horse around and cantered to where his band of followers waited. A moment later they were riding back the way they had come.
“I do wonder how posterity will judge Thomas,” Henry mused aloud, half to himself, half to de Lucy, who had accompanied him to the meeting. “Or me, for that matter.”
Would he, Henry Secundus Plantagenet Rex, be seen as a wise and visionary ruler? One who sought to bring law and prosperity to his kingdom but was thwarted by a self-serving prelate? Or would he be judged as a ruthless and vengeful tyrant opposed by a lofty, principled man of God?
“The future will judge the archbishop even as the present: a man consumed by pride and ambition.” De Lucy crossed himself.
And what am I consumed by? Henry was tempted to retort. His gaze followed the cowled figure riding toward France, watching it grow smaller and smaller.