ONCE ROSAMUND HAD CONCLUDED that Thomas Becket must be the sacrifice, she became intensely interested in all that concerned him. Thus she eagerly awaited his return to England in early December, joining in the widespread relief that the seven-year-long quarrel was finally at an end. The general populace rejoiced in the knowledge that the primate would return peacefully to his See and that the prelates who crowned the young King would not be punished or England placed under interdict.
And so when Rosamund heard the stunning news that Thomas had betrayed his agreement with King Henry by secretly arranging to have his writs of excommunication sent on ahead of him, she could scarcely believe it. Before Thomas even made port, the archbishop of York had been served with a notice of his suspension, and the bishops of London and Salisbury were served with notices of their excommunication. In retaliation, the sheriff of Kent, who everyone knew had been stealing crops and livestock from Canterbury, rode posthaste to Dover, threatening to prevent the primate from landing. But the wily Thomas landed at Sandwich and safely made his way to Canterbury where, surrounded by a host of supporters, he waved the royal safe-conduct in the sheriff’s face. Although the country was not placed under interdict—thus far—and Henry himself not excommunicated, churches and monasteries in the south of England were in an uproar. Strange tales began to surface.
The chaplain at Woodstock announced to his flock that Thomas had foretold his own death while he was still at sea. When one of his followers pointed out the coast of England, the primate replied, “Before we have been there forty days you will wish yourself anywhere else in the world.”
Once he was reinstated at Canterbury, rumors spread that the primate would weep without cause, then become enraged, issuing sentences of excommunication for the least slight. No one knew what to expect; everyone was terrified. This had the ring of truth because the village was also gripped by fear. Signs and portents sprang up everywhere. Rosamund herself saw bloody smears on the apple tree again. Someone in Oxford claimed to have seen a star with a fiery tail; an infant was born with six toes on one foot; there was a torrent of rain so heavy that streams flooded and wells overflowed; and a rushing wind felled a sapling in the garden at Everswell. All these incidents pointed to the coming event, Aude told Rosamund when she visited the old woman, her eyes alight with something that froze Rosamund’s blood.
“Ye not told anyone, has ye?” Her fingers clawed at Rosamund’s arm.
“No, no. I said I wouldn’t. But I believe I know who the flamen—”
Aude put a finger over her mouth. “No need to speak o’ these things.” She made the sign of horns and crossed herself. “’Course ye knows, lass. Didn’t I say as ye have the Old Wisdom? Soon now. Aye, it be soon.”
As the days passed, Rosamund found herself caught up in a rising tension so all-pervasive she found it difficult to sleep and felt compelled, regardless of the weather, to ride either to the village or the castle to hear the latest news. Then came word that the young king, who was supposed to meet with Thomas at Winchester, had suddenly refused to see him. Everyone knew that King Henry had charged his son to welcome the archbishop and honor his safe-conduct, and folk could talk of nothing but the boy’s refusal to do so. How could he go against his father’s instructions? Rosamund wondered. Of course, the young king lacked experience and now faced a political crisis that he was ill equipped to deal with on his own. Thomas was not without enemies; perhaps the boy had been advised that the archbishop was no longer entitled to royal protection?
The second week in December there was another heavy storm, accompanied by howling winds. On the first clear day, Rosamund attended Mass in the chapel. Also in attendance were the misbegotten Geoffrey and his half brother, Prince John.
“I did not expect to see you here,” she said with a pleased smile after the service was over.
“The recent storm damaged the chapel at Beaumont, so we came to Woodstock.” Geoffrey bowed. “Prince John is going to spend Christmas with his father at Bures in Normandy, and I am instructed to come to Oxford and escort him to London.”
“You do not go yourself to Bures for the Christmas court?”
They walked slowly out of the chapel into the passageway that led to the great hall.
“No. I remain at St. Paul’s, as always.” Was that a trace of disappointment in his voice? Rosamund wondered. “But as it happens,” Geoffrey continued, “I would not want to leave England now in the midst of all the excitement.”
“To do with the return of Thomas Becket, you mean?”
“Indeed. You can imagine the furor at St. Paul’s, where the archbishop has as many supporters as he does opponents.” He lowered his voice and led her down the passage and outside into the courtyard. “I myself find Thomas’s actions unforgivable. He seems determined to—to create a stir, regardless of the consequences, and no one can predict what he will do next. This is why I was asked to escort John through London.”
The wind whistled across the courtyard, causing Geoffrey’s black robes to flap about his ankles.
“Create a stir? Is there some sort of trouble in the city?”
“You mean you have not heard?” When Rosamund shook her head, he continued, “Thomas will be riding through London sometime within the next few days, and the place is like a dry tinderbox. Anything might happen.”
The time of the sacrifice was due sometime toward the end of the month. “Do you imply Prince John could be in danger? That someone would hurt the king’s son?” She could not believe this.
“Not deliberately, of course. No, no.” He shook his head for emphasis. “But, at the very least, demonstrations are expected in London and elsewhere. Even riots are not unlikely. The whole business could turn very ugly indeed. As I said, anything could happen.”
Rosamund’s mouth felt dry as she asked, “So you really believe Thomas knows he might provoke such a reaction?”
“Oh he knows, make no mistake. In my opinion, he wants to remind everyone of his power and prove his popularity. Especially after my half brother—the young king, that is—foolishly refused to see him.” Geoffrey’s lips tightened. “Harry has been sorely ill advised in this matter. He would never have made such a decision on his own.”
“Would it be possible to travel with your party? I would dearly love to see the archbishop with my own eyes.” She was not sure what prompted her, but all her instincts urged her to go to London.
“Well—” Geoffrey was obviously taken aback. “I hardly think it appropriate, Mistress de Clifford, considering your position in my father’s household. What would people say? For a female to travel alone is highly improper.”
“I doubt anyone will notice me. And this is an unusual circumstance, surely? Please reconsider.” She gave him an imploring glance. “I will take my servant, Hildi, and there must be attendant ladies who travel with your party.”
“It is true that there are several nobles’ wives who will accompany John across the Channel, but that is beside the point.” His gray eyes radiated disapproval. “After all, your first duty is to King Henry. And there is no guarantee that Thomas will arrive in London while we are there, only the possibility.”
“I will take that chance. And it is not necessary to remind me of my duty, Master Geoffrey.” She paused while he had the grace to redden. “These are exceptional times, and I think your father would agree that all who can bear witness to this historic event should do so.” She did not know from where the words had come, but his expression softened and he slowly nodded his head.
“It cannot be denied. Very well, I promise nothing but let me see what can be arranged. I will send word to Everswell. We leave in two days’ time.”
Two days later Rosamund, riding Bronwin, was on her way to London, accompanied by Hildi, who had never been farther south than Wallingford and was both terrified and excited. The party consisted of a large number of ecclesiastics, two noblewomen riding in their own litter, several lords who would cross the Channel with Prince John, and a group of burghers from Oxford. They were escorted by knights, men-at-arms, and archers.
The air was crisp and cold, the trees white with hoar frost. A thin layer of ice covered the road. The party wound its way through Oxfordshire, spent the night at an inn, and entered the city at Aldersgate just after vespers the following day. Arrangements were made for all the women to spend the night at a priory run by nuns near St. Paul’s cathedral. Since the burghers and a few of the ecclesiastics would be returning to Oxford two days later, Geoffrey, still concerned about Rosamund’s reputation, made her promise that she and Hildi would return with them even if Thomas had not yet made an appearance.
Rosamund woke early the next morning with a sense of apprehension—or perhaps it was excitement? When she left the priory with Hildi and the other women the sky was just starting to lighten, night stars fading into a cold pink dawn. Geoffrey, the litter carrying John, and the escort were waiting, but the ecclesiastics and Oxford burghers had gone.
“We need to hurry, ladies,” the captain of the escort called out. “I want to get through London and Southwark as quickly as possible.”
Rosamund, hastily mounting Bronwin, did not need to be told that there was something brewing. She could breathe it in the frosty air. One of the noblewomen pointed out sights to Rosamund and Hildi: the booths of West Cheap just opening for business; the Conqueror’s White Tower off in the distance; the quayside lining the river. Ahead lay London Bridge, spanning the Thames. Before they were halfway over the bridge, Rosamund heard it: a long low murmur swelling into a growl of mingled voices. The sound grew louder once they had crossed over into Southwark.
“Pull to the side of the road, over there by St. Margaret’s,” the captain shouted, waving his arm toward a stone church.
Rosamund followed the litters as they made their way off the road and dismounted while the escort moved quickly. Knights couched spears or drew swords from their scabbards; foot soldiers raised pikes and maces, and the archers notched arrows to wooden bow staves. Even Geoffrey held a small mace, the only weapon a cleric was allowed to use. In the distance Rosamund could see a huge crowd approaching. She guessed there must have been hundreds upon hundreds marching alongside, behind, or in front of a tall figure astride a black charger. Thomas Becket was sumptuously clad in full episcopal regalia, his gold-embroidered robes glittering and his miter sparkling with jewels. One hand was raised in blessing. A group of black-robed canons burst out of St. Margaret’s, signing themselves and crying aloud. Some lifted up crosses; others fell to their knees.
A voice shouted, “Blessed is the father of orphans, the judge of widows; blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.”
Rosamund’s throat constricted as the marchers swept by. No one spared a glance at the litters, and the escort slowly lowered their weapons. As the archbishop drew near, the mitered head bowing right and left, Rosamund could discern the deep-set dark eyes and the gaunt features. Thomas Becket rode by so close she could have touched his stirrups. Then he was past her. Behind him tramped a procession of monks, commoners, and soldiers, all chanting Te Deum.
Suddenly a gray-haired old woman with wild eyes pushed herself forward through the crowd and cried, “Beware the knife, Your Grace, beware the knife.”
Rosamund felt her heart stop. Moments later the old woman was dragged off by unseen hands. There was no time to ponder this incident for suddenly she heard a lusty chorus of voices coming from a group of rough-looking men in leather jerkins carrying staves of wood. Arms linked, they marched by themselves, calling out in unison: “Thomas o’ London, Thomas o’ London, one of our own he be.”
The sound sent a chill through her. “Who are they? What do they mean?” Rosamund asked one of the men-at-arms.
“Lawless London knaves who would as soon slit ye throat as look at ye.” The man scowled and shook his mace. “Thomas Becket be born in London o’ humble birth, mistress, raised on the streets o’ London he were, and this—this lowlife rabble think it an honor that one o’ their own should rise so high.”
But surely it was an honor for a boy of the commonfolk of London, the first archbishop born and bred in England, Henry had told her, to have come so far? The excitement she had experienced upon waking had become a breathless exhilaration pulsing throughout her whole body. Even if one disapproved of the archbishop’s actions it was impossible not to be in awe of someone who, rightly or wrongly, was prepared to defy his king in defense of his beliefs. For all those who dared not brave the storm or challenge the lightning, here was a man of courage who would do it for them. Rosamund began to weep. Caught up in the fervor of the moment, at one with the roaring crowd, she felt her spirit take wing to embrace this ancient mystery.
Eleanor arrived at Bures two days before Christmas, filled with misgivings. Reluctant to leave Aquitaine, she knew she dared not refuse to attend another Christmas court and still maintain even a pretense of cordial relations with Henry. She had brought with her Prince Geoffrey and Prince Richard, the French princesses, and Joanna, her only daughter still at home. Little Eleanor had crossed the Pyrenees to join her betrothed, King Alfonso of Castile.
“Well met, Nell,” Henry said, as he entered the solar the day after her arrival. He kissed her on both cheeks and appraised her with admiration in his eyes. “You look quite stunning. I’ve always said green suits you.”
Eleanor had arrayed herself in a gold-embroidered emerald-green tunic over a pale green gown, her hair caught up in a darker green headdress. Pomegranate paste enhanced the color of her cheeks and lips. Henry had nothing to do with the care she had taken, she told herself, and the fact that he appeared to be genuinely glad to see her was disconcerting. Blazing with vitality, his skin ruddy from sun and wind, his pewter eyes warm and glowing, she was dismayed to find herself caught up in that dangerous undertow of feeling that flowed so strongly between them. She must be on her guard, she reminded herself. But whether against Henry or herself she was not sure.
“The boys have grown since June,” said Henry. “And our youngest daughter is turning into a real beauty, I must say. We shall have to find her a husband soon. King William of Sicily has made overtures and though he is much older than I would prefer, we could do worse. I wish Harry could be with us, but it was necessary he remain in England.”
While he told her that Thomas Becket had returned to his See of Canterbury, his restless gaze swept the solar. “Who is that maid helping Marguerite unpack the saddlebags?”
Eleanor followed his glance. “You don’t recognize Alais?” She smiled her satisfaction. “That is because I’ve transformed her.”
“You cannot mean that—that girl is the French princess! God’s eyes! I would not have recognized her.”
Eleanor looked with affection upon her protégée, who bore little resemblance to the skinny retiring creature who had arrived in Poitou. Glossy black braids were twisted becomingly around her head and adorned with bits of red ribbon. The bright color set off the long-lashed dark eyes and gave the slightly sallow skin a rosy hue. Over her carmine gown she wore a green tunic set off by a gold girdle, which encircled her slender waist. Softly rounded hips and a budding bosom gave evidence of approaching womanhood. Although still not traditionally pretty, Alais was now striking and provocative. She smiled flirtatiously at Henry, basking in his admiration.
“Does Richard realize how fortunate he is?”
Eleanor frowned and drew him aside to another section of the solar. “In truth, I cannot tell how he feels about her. Of course, he is so caught up in training to be a knight that nothing else seems to matter.”
“At fourteen I would have been panting after her like a lovelorn hound. His restraint is commendable.” Henry put his arm around her waist and gave her a little squeeze. “You and I have a great deal of catching up to do, Nell.”
Her blood stirred at his touch. “I heard John was to be here,” she said, for something to say, hoping he did not hear the breathless note in her voice.
“He will be. Winter storms must have delayed vessels sailing across the Channel. No captain would dare take risks with the boy’s safety.” Henry’s expression sobered. “I think John is on his own too much in England, and I want you to take him back to the Abbey of Fontevrault when you return to Poitou. Someone needs to keep an eye on him while he continues his education.”
“Of course. Have you made any plans for his future?”
“Not yet.” Henry sighed. “But I will think of something.” He let his hand settle on her hip. “Tell me, have you had any unexpected visitors in Poitiers?”
“Unexpected? No. Why?”
“Never mind. Let it be a surprise. Now, I want your opinion on the king of Sicily—”
The Christmas court proceeded without incident, the next few days filled with feasting and merriment. The hall was decorated with boughs of evergreen and scarlet holly berries; candles flared in silver sconces, and a great Yule log burned in the hearth. The sound of minstrels strumming chansons on their lutes mingled with the yelp and growl of hounds foraging for bones in the rushes. The air grew thick with the scents of roasting meat and wood smoke, wine and sweat.
Henry was in better spirits than Eleanor had seen him in some time, and he had every reason to be. The past year had been filled with successes: their second daughter, little Eleanor, would make a prestigious marriage with the House of Castile, their son Harry had been crowned in his father’s lifetime, the peace with Louis of France was holding firm, and, most important of all, the archbishop of Canterbury was safely back in England.
Henry was very attentive to Eleanor, demonstrably affectionate, and had not once made her wrong for failing to attend her son’s crowning. Certainly she would have gone but for the fact that Rosamund de Clifford was still very much in evidence, and Eleanor had vowed never again to set foot in England as long as the girl was ensconced on the grounds of Woodstock. Whenever she thought about this creature, it was like a dark shadow obscuring the light, corroding her sense of well-being. Was Henry as infatuated with the girl as he had once been? She had no idea and would have cut off her tongue rather than ask. He was rarely in England, so he could not be with the de Clifford girl very often. A most-neglected leman. Perhaps he was losing interest? . . .
Frequently she and Henry would exchange looks of pride and satisfaction as they gazed on their comely offspring. They talked endlessly about their children: Matilda’s and Harry’s successful marriages; the upcoming nuptials of little Eleanor; the betrothals of their second and third sons, Geoffrey to the Breton heiress Constance and Richard to Alais; and whether they ought to wed Joanna to the king of Sicily. With every union, the Plantagenet tree would extend its branches farther afield. There was a sense of ease and harmony between them as they shared their hopes and dreams for a golden future. On Christmas Day a courier arrived to say that, after a stormy crossing, Prince John had safely landed at Boulogne and would be arriving in several days. At some point during the celebrations Eleanor became aware of an open invitation in Henry’s eyes. Despite her resolution never to bed him again, it was impossible not to respond. Whenever their gaze collided or his hand brushed hers, Eleanor felt herself weaken.
It was well after the hour of compline on the twenty-sixth of December, the first day of Christmas, when the steward announced the unexpected arrival of three prelates from England. There had been no advance word of their coming, which was unusual but not particularly significant. The court was still celebrating the Feast of Saint Stephen, and the knights and mesnie at the lower tables, as well as nobles at the high table, were somewhat the worse for drink. Mantles were thrown back, belts unbuckled, legs stretched out, and heads lolled half-asleep. Even Henry, who usually ate and drank sparingly, was feeling the effects of the wine goblet. He was playing the Lord of Misrule and amusing everyone by his antics. A gifted mimic, he was imitating his serious justiciar, Richard de Lucy, and the hall rocked with mirth. Eleanor herself was laughing out loud.
She was surprised when the archbishop of York, his cloak muddy and disheveled, was ushered into the hall by the steward and seated next to Henry. The bishops of London and Salisbury, who had also been announced, did not make an appearance.
“To what do we owe this dubious pleasure, Roger?” Henry, his gold crown askew on his russet head, belched. “Why are Gilbert and Joscelyn lurking outside? In truth, why are you here at all instead of ministering to your flocks in England? God’s eyes, I have never seen such a long face, sour as curdled milk.” He pulled his features into a grotesque semblance of Roger’s and everyone laughed.
“Your Grace, you will not believe what has happened,” lisped Roger of York in a loud whining voice that carried over the hall. “Thomas Becket has suspended me from my See and excommunicated Gilbert and Joscelyn. The bishops may not enter the hall under these circumstances.”
His words stopped the merriment like a bolt of lightning. In the ensuing silence, everyone crossed themselves and the archbishop of York poured forth a venomous tale of Thomas’s defiant actions against King Henry. There emerged a bizarre picture of a crazed archbishop invading London at the head of a rabble-rousing band of armed supporters, defying laws, seizing land, and excommunicating anyone who stood in his path. Had Thomas truly lost his wits? Eleanor wondered. Or was York grossly embellishing his account?
There was a rising murmur of outrage when Roger finished and Eleanor saw Henry’s eyes start to flash and his mouth tighten in that pugnacious grimace she knew only too well.
“Your Grace,” she began hastily, “none can deny that the archbishop’s actions toward you and the bishops are unforgivable, but what land has he seized that was not in his See? What laws did he break?”
Roger’s swinelike countenance flushed, his blue eyes became mere slits in his fat cheeks. “Well, that is what I heard, my lord. The primate’s wild behavior is the talk of England. And he broke his agreement not to excommunicate us!”
Eleanor could see Henry listening intently, trying in his drunken state to make sense of Roger’s words.
“I tell you, my lord king,” Roger cried, “as God is my witness, if you want peace in your lands you will never have it while Thomas lives. He will continue to defy you!”
Henry was now scowling. “Thomas has behaved outrageously; he has betrayed our trust! What do you suggest, Roger?”
“I think His Grace should seek counsel from his goodly barons and knights,” Roger replied uneasily, shifting his gaze away from Henry’s.
Eleanor’s heart jumped in alarm as she realized that Roger, in his rage against the archbishop, was deliberately trying to provoke Henry but not be caught doing it. She saw her husband’s glowering gaze pass over the barons at the high table then linger on the trestle tables below filled with lesser nobles and knights.
“God’s eyes, has anyone a suggestion?” Henry’s voice rose.
No one spoke. Eleanor could see the knights at the trestle tables shift uncomfortably on their benches. Henry swung his head forward like a bull ready to charge.
“I advise caution, my lord,” said Richard de Lucy, always the voice of reason. “Go to England and see for yourself what damage—if any—has been done.”
“Caution? It is too late for that.” Roger of York rose to his feet even as he cast de Lucy a poisonous glance. “Let me repeat, my lord king, that while Thomas lives you will have no peace, nor quiet days, nor a tranquil kingdom.”
Eleanor could almost hear Henry’s patience snap like a cord stretched too tight. His lips drew back in a vicious snarl, his breath hissed, and his face turned a dark red. “I have promoted in my realm idle and wretched knaves,” he shouted, banging his fist on the table with uncontrollable fury, “faithless to their sovereign lord, whom they allow to be shamefully mocked by a low-born clerk!”
He swept the table with his arm, knocking over silver goblets and gleaming saltcellars, and sending a platter of marchpane rolling to the floor. “Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?”
The silence was like death. Eleanor saw the magnates at the high table wince and cross themselves. Like herself, they had heard these violent outbursts before. She looked down at the trestle tables, where knights, archers, and men-at-arms also signed themselves, letting the not-unfamiliar storm break over their heads.
At the very back of the hall Eleanor observed four Norman knights seated together whispering among themselves. A moment later they rose one by one and unobtrusively slipped out of the hall. While all of them looked vaguely familiar—she must have seen them in Henry’s entourage—Eleanor did not know them by name. But there was something about the manner of their departure that struck her as . . . “furtive” was the only word that came to mind. A moment later she had forgotten them, as Henry’s violent pounding of the table sent a bowl of sweetmeats sliding into her lap. His fury continued as he shrieked and roared unintelligible epithets until out of sheer exhaustion he fell forward over the table in a stupor. He was carried senseless to his chamber, while everyone else hurriedly left the hall.
When Eleanor next remembered the four knights, it was too late.