ROSAMUND SPENT THE LAST two weeks in December in a state of anxious suspense, expecting daily to hear that something had happened to Thomas Becket. But when the month was almost over and nothing had happened, she began to wonder if perhaps the sacrifice would not be necessary after all. Her experience in London when she had seen the primate had made a deep impression on her, but she was not able to talk about it. Hildi, who had witnessed it with her and found the whole episode terrifying, declared she never wanted to leave Woodstock again.
It was late afternoon on the twenty-ninth day of December, the fourth day of Christmas, when a stranger, a small man with a beaked nose and bent back, appeared at Everswell. He came at Old Aude’s request, he said, with an invitation to spend the evening with the old woman. He would escort her to Aude’s cot and back again. After a moment’s hesitation, Rosamund agreed.
“Best be careful, mistress,” Hildi whispered fearfully. “It might be to do with—ye know. It be one o’ them times.”
Rosamund did know but could no more have refused the invitation than stop breathing. Just like the need to go to London, she felt caught up in a groundswell of something more powerful than her own will.
Before leaving, she took a gold crucifix set with tiny pearls and sapphires from an ivory casket she kept on the oak chest in the bower. A gift from Henry, it was so valuable that she was usually afraid to wear it out of the cot, but on this night she felt the need of whatever protection it might afford her. She was halfway down the stairs to the kitchen when she turned back and also took the bone-handled knife she had brought with her from Bredelais; she was not sure why. From the kitchen table she picked up a straw basket and packed it with two of the gingerbread Yule dolls she had made early that morning, still fragrant with the scent of honey, saffron, and nutmeg.
Rosamund rode Bronwin, and the man with the beaked nose, mounted on a hackney, kept several paces behind her. She had the impression his eyes were constantly scanning the woods on either side of the road. By the time they came in sight of Aude’s cot it was already dusk, with twilight shadows falling over the clearing. As they approached, Rosamund began to feel a whisper of apprehension. It seemed to her that the trees, with their thick trunks and bare sprawling branches, the dark tangled underbrush surrounding the cot, had taken on a menacing aspect that had not been there before.
Inside, by contrast, it was warm and cheerful, lit by twelve white candles bound together with a hemp cord and set in a shallow wooden bowl filled with holly berries. Over a roaring fire swung an iron cauldron; a stack of wooden bowls perched on the long elmwood table, along with a pewter pitcher and cups. After accepting the gingerbread dolls, Aude pointed to one of the stools scattered about, and Rosamund removed her blue cloak and fur-lined leather gauntlets before sitting down. Besides the man who had escorted her, there were two other men present, both of whom gazed at her with suspicious eyes.
“Has ye lost ye wits, old woman?” one of them asked Aude in a shocked voice. “What king’s leman doing here, eh?”
“Because she have the wisecraft.”
“It be too dangerous—”
“She can bear witness.”
Startled, Rosamund remembered telling the oblate Geoffrey that before she went to London.
The men looked disbelieving but fell silent. After that, no one spoke. Aude did not explain the purpose of this gathering and in such hostile company, Rosamund did not want to ask. In truth, she was not sure she wanted to know, already regretting her decision to come.
After a time, Aude served her guests bowls of hot stew with cups of mead and Rosamund’s gingerbread dolls, which had been cut in two. Everyone appeared to be on edge, as if waiting for—Rosamund could not bring herself to guess what it might be. The air grew warm and close in the cot. Suddenly she heard a sound, a deep snuffling roar outside in the blackness. The hair rose on the back of her neck.
“What was that?”
“Naught to be feared, lass,” said Aude, exchanging a brief look with the men. “Just a stag rattling his antlers and grunting.”
It was the obvious explanation, but the apprehension that Rosamund had felt earlier grew stronger. Something was going to happen, she could feel it, and everyone in the cot knew it. Her belly coiled into a tight knot.
“Soon now, soon,” whispered Aude.
Silence fell. When a loud knock sounded, Rosamund started. One of the men looked at Aude, who nodded. He opened the door. Torchlight flickered in the darkness. The man at the door seemed to be whispering to someone outside. Rosamund craned her neck, then drew back smothering a scream. The door quickly shut but not before she had glimpsed what looked like a tall figure clad in animal skin, nothing that resembled a human face, and curved horns that glittered red in the brief glow of a torch. A memory stirred: Gwennyth’s arms holding her beside a roaring fire while a similar figure lurched out of the blackness of the forest.
Rosamund’s heart hammered, and she felt sick with fear. Here was something as old as time, both strange and familiar, a dark primeval presence that lurked beneath the surface of things. With shaking fingers she touched the crucifix hanging around her neck, squeezed the bone handle of the knife, and made the sign of horns to ward off evil. The man who had gone to the door said something in Aude’s ear. Rosamund felt an overpowering urge to leave and return to Everswell. She no longer wanted to be part of the forces at work here, whatever they were. She suddenly leapt to her feet.
“I must go back,” she said in a strangled voice.
Aude turned to her, her eyes alight with a terrible knowledge. “Not now.” Her voice was a low croon as she hobbled quickly over to Rosamund and put a clawlike hand on her shoulder forcing her back down onto the wooden stool. “It not be safe for ye yet. I tells ye when.”
Rosamund started to protest but Aude held up her other hand. “Wait! Almost time!” She exchanged a look of anticipation with the men who sat forward, bodies tense.
Rosamund found herself unable to move. Engulfed by a feeling of impending doom, the knot inside her kept twisting tighter and tighter until she wanted to scream. Everything became deathly quiet, the stillness creeping over her flesh with clammy fingers. At the moment when she felt she could not bear the suspense an instant more, a searing pain passed through her head as if she had received a heavy blow. With a sharp cry she raised her arms to protect herself, then felt another pain, like barbed claws tearing her flesh, and she screamed. Abruptly, the pain vanished and with it the fear and horrible sense of doom. She felt relief so overwhelming she began to weep.
“It be finished,” whispered Aude, her whole body swaying in a kind of ecstasy. “It be over.” She gave Rosamund a toothless smile. “Go home, lass. Earth be quiet at last. Nature has the blood it do need. All will be well.” She put a finger to her lips. “Now ye understands, eh? For the next time.”
But Rosamund did not understand. Not as she had understood in London with the cheering crowd. Nor did she want to know more. There was an odd compassion in Aude’s eyes, a kind of pity that made no sense whatsoever. All she wanted to do was leave as quickly as possible and forget this night ever happened.
By early January of the New Year, 1171, the Christmas court at Bures was over and Henry moved south to Argentan. Eleanor, on her way back to Poitou with the children, accompanied him. One morning, several days after their arrival in Argentan, they attended Mass together, then sat down at the high table in the great hall to break their fast. Eleanor planned to leave within a few hours and Henry was trying to persuade her to stay.
“I shall miss you,” he said. And it was true.
They had gotten on very well over the past fortnight, better than they had in several years. Eleanor was still wary and distrustful, adroitly fending off his advances. After his strange reluctance to bed her in Poitiers he could hardly blame her. But Henry sensed that the next time they saw each other she would capitulate. High time she forgave him his lapses.
He reached over to take her hand and bring it to his lips.
“What will people think,” she said, “at this hour of the morning?”
“And when did you ever care what people . . . God’s eyes! What’s this disturbance?”
A man ran into the hall with the steward on his heels trying to restrain him. “You cannot enter without being announced! I will call the guards.”
Mud-spattered and gray with fatigue, the intruder looked as though he had ridden through the night in haste. Henry’s heart leapt in sudden premonition as he slowly held up his hand; the steward fell back. When the man threw off the hood of his black cloak, Henry recognized William FitzStephen, secretary to Thomas Becket.
“My lord king, Lady, I bring ill news,” he gasped, falling to one knee. “The archbishop of Canterbury was murdered on the twenty-ninth day of December.”
Amidst cries and exclamations from those present, Henry rose unsteadily to his feet, feeling the blood drain from his face. Beside him he saw Eleanor’s face blanch. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came forth.
“Where have you heard such a foul rumor?” the constable of Argentan asked in a skeptical voice.
“No rumor, my lord. I was an eyewitness to what happened.” FitzStephen, pale and red-eyed, was trembling with exhaustion.
Henry gestured to the steward to give him some wine.
“Four Norman knights slew the primate before the altar in his own cathedral.” The words fell like stones from FitzStephen’s lips.
“A martyr’s death.” The chaplain signed himself. “May God have mercy on his soul.”
Henry felt so faint he had to grip the table with both hands. The steward handed FitzStephen a goblet of wine and he downed half its contents at one gulp.
“Norman knights entered Canterbury armed?” Richard de Lucy’s voice rose in disbelief.
“All carried swords, wore iron helms and full mail.” FitzStephen took a deep shuddering breath. “One also wielded an ax with which he hewed down a partition that blocked his path. ‘We have brought you a message from the king oversea,’ he shouted. His very words, as God is my witness.”
“I sent Thomas no message,” said Henry, finally finding his voice. “Are these knights known?”
“Indeed. The knight with the ax was Reginald FitzUrse.”
“If he wore a helm, how could you recognize which one he was?” de Lucy asked. It was a lawyer’s question and would not have occurred to Henry, who still could not take it all in.
“It was the archbishop knew him, my lord, by his shield. Gules, a bear argent, muzzled sable.”
Yes, of course Thomas would know. It had been his boast that he could recognize every coat of arms, every blazon in England and Normandy.
“Reginald FitzUrse was once in the archbishop’s train,” FitzStephen continued, “a vassal of Canterbury.”
There was a shocked gasp across the hall. Henry closed his eyes and crossed himself. Blood of Christ! There was no greater crime than that of a recreant knight, one who murdered the lord to whom he had once sworn homage.
“FitzUrse claimed you had sent him, my lord king.”
“That is a foul lie, and I have many witnesses to prove it.” Henry felt a rush of blood return to his head.
An instant later he reeled back, remembering the fatal words he had uttered, or, rather, been told he uttered while flown with wine. He had no clear recall of what he had said, only the savage fury that had possessed him at the time. Although the absence of four knights, FitzUrse among them, had later caused comment, no one, not in their wildest imaginings, could have dreamt that honorable men loyal to the crown would have committed such a blasphemous act.
“The knights were shouting at the primate,” FitzStephen continued, “abusing him for excommunicating the bishops, threatening him with dire punishment if he did not leave England. The prior of Christ Church ordered the doors to be closed and barred in the hope that if Your Grace had ordered the knights to punish the archbishop they might be reluctant to do so if it meant the desecration of the Mother Church of England.”
Henry steeled himself. “Did—did Thomas believe I had sent these knights to murder him?”
“Oh no, Your Grace. He said to me quite clearly, ‘The king is too careful of the law to have ever ordered these knights to murder me unjudged.’”
Henry let out his breath in a long sigh of relief, clinging to these words as if they were a spar that might yet save him. If Thomas knew he had not ordered this butchery, then perhaps others could be convinced as well. He gestured for the secretary to go on.
“Then, unaccountably, the archbishop ordered the doors to be opened.” FitzStephen’s face was stricken with grief. “We begged him not to do so, but he said the house of God should not be made into a fortress, and God’s will be done. FitzUrse cried out that the bishops of London and Salisbury must be absolved or Thomas will die, and the primate retorted, ‘I am ready to die for my Lord, that in my blood the Church may obtain peace and liberty.’”
FitzStephen was openly weeping. “Then the first blow came, followed by sword thrusts. All the knights thrust their swords into his body. The archbishop’s skull was smashed open and the blood and brains spattered all over—”
“No!” A cry of anguish rent the air and Henry realized it came from his own throat. He held his hands to his head and began to rock back and forth. “No more! No more! I cannot bear it.”
Sobs racked his body as he stumbled from the dais, thrusting aside all who tried to aid him, and ran headlong from the hall, feeling as if all the fiends of hell pursued him.
Eleanor sat stunned, Henry’s agonized cry still echoing in her ears. “Go after the duke,” she said to the chaplain, after a moment. “Bring his physician with you. In the state my husband is in he should not be left alone.”
She turned to William FitzStephen. “Your efforts are greatly appreciated, and your grief and loss shared by all. Refresh yourself now. When the king is recovered he will speak with you again.”
“He must. I have not told the king the names of the other foul traitors. They must all be brought to justice, madam.”
“Naturally they will be punished! There can be no question of that.”
De Lucy and the others listening all voiced their agreement.
The secretary nodded. “I also wanted to tell King Henry that it is my belief, despite everything, that the archbishop still loved him.”
A love that often manifested itself as hate, Eleanor was tempted to say, as the steward escorted FitzStephen from the hall. Her fingers trembled as she picked up a goblet of wine. Sweet Marie, she suddenly remembered the four knights. Suppose she had mentioned them leaving the hall in a stealthy manner? It would hardly have mattered. There was no reason to stop them. Who would ever have thought that Henry’s drunken cry would precipitate murder?
The steward returned. “Madam, the captain of your escort wants to know if you are still planning to leave for Poitou?”
“Yes. No.” She put a hand distractedly to her head. “I don’t know. Have him wait. I must think.”
What should she do? Serious repercussions were sure to follow in the wake of Thomas’s death, regardless of the fact that he had absolved Henry. It was only a question of time before the storm broke. Instinct told her to leave Normandy at once, to distance herself and her children from this disaster with all the speed she could muster. Public opinion, always quick to judge, would be against Henry now. He would be blamed, condemned, vilified, possibly even excommunicated as instigator of the assassination. However unwitting, he would be seen as the cause of this atrocity. Both Normandy and England might well be placed under interdict. At the thought she staggered to her feet, stifling a cry. So many conflicting emotions churned within her—grief, fear, regret, a sense of terrible waste—that she felt like a boiling cauldron. Madness to delay, she would set out at once for Poitiers. No taint of this heinous deed must touch Aquitaine. There she and the children would be safe. But how could she abandon Henry in his hour of need? Leave him to face this tragedy alone? Unless, unless . . .
Eleanor walked swiftly from the hall. The doors to the keep were open, and against a wintry gray sky she glimpsed the courtyard filled with familiar activity: falconers aired their peregrines, huntsmen walked coupled greyhounds, grooms curried chargers. Extraordinary that the outside world should continue on as if nothing had happened while the Plantagenet world was being torn apart.
When she entered Henry’s chamber he lay prone upon his bed, the semidarkness lit by a single candle. She sat beside him and laid a hand on his forehead.
“Henry, I think it would be best if you came to Poitou with me. Aquitaine will not be affected by this scandal, and you will be safe there until the storm blows over.”
“Bless you for the thought, Nell, but I cannot run away. Hide behind my wife’s skirts. I am already a pariah, I don’t want to become a laughingstock as well.” His voice was hoarse from weeping.
“That is a foolish assumption. I beg you come with me.” She stroked his hair with tender fingers.
“Do you go, Nell, and as soon as may be. Not a breath of this must touch you or the children. When I have recovered, and dealt with the situation as best I can, then I will consider coming to Poitiers.”
He closed his eyes, looking so vulnerable, so helpless, that Eleanor’s heart melted in love and pity. How could she leave him when he so obviously needed her?
“Would you like me to stay?” She leaned over and kissed his wet cheeks, his forehead, and lastly, his lips. His only response was to pat her gently on the back.
“Of course I want you to stay. But we both know it is not in your best interests, or the children’s, to do so. In truth, the sooner you are removed from this wasp’s nest the better.”
Slowly she rose from the bed, disappointed but sensing how he felt and even agreeing with him. After all, he had only echoed her own misgivings. “A word of advice, my dear. Regardless of how you feel you must seek out and punish the four knights at once. Without delay. It is what everyone expects and will do much to disassociate you from their heinous actions.”
Henry nodded and turned his face to the wall. Eleanor bit her lip as she held back an onrush of tears. At the door she hesitated, wanting to run back, to take him in her arms, to comfort him, to protect him from any and all who sought to destroy him. With great reluctance she left the chamber, closing the door behind her.
As Eleanor left the chamber, Henry had the impulse to call her back, tell her not to go, admit how desperately he needed her, but he knew well enough that his family should not be involved. Also, her last words had chilled him. Punish the offenders? How could he lay the entire blame for this disaster on four crazed knights who had so thoughtlessly heeded his rash words? Guilt lay heavily on his head as well.
Henry spent the next ten days in seclusion, refusing to see anyone, putting aside all affairs of the realm. When he finally emerged from his Calvary one evening in late January, he wearily climbed the winding staircase to the battlements. Darkness had fallen and the air was crisp and cold. Moonlight silvered the towers, the walls of the town, and beyond, the spire of the abbey. It must be well past compline, and he wondered why the bells had not rung. Now that he thought about it, the church bells had been silent all day. Beset by a sudden panic Henry ran inside and bolted down the winding staircase and into the great hall.
“Is Normandy laid under interdict?”
One glance at the long faces he encountered confirmed his worst fears.
“The archbishop of Sens, without waiting for word from the pope, has laid the ban upon Normandy,” said Richard de Lucy. “And there is a courier waiting from Queen Eleanor.”
Numb from the news of the interdict, Henry warmed himself at the central fire while scanning Eleanor’s message, which she had written at Fontevrault. It urged him once again to come to Aquitaine. Dearest Nell. How he wished it were possible, but his position had not altered. Having unleashed the whirlwind, what he had done could only be undone from Normandy or England. Certainly not Poitou. As he had told her, fleeing to Poitiers would be a craven act, adding yet more coals to an already raging fire.
Henry called for his chaplain and dictated a quick letter to Eleanor explaining his position and suggesting that once the children were settled, she should consider returning to Normandy. The time he had spent alone nursing his grief, trying to come to terms with himself, had helped clear his head. Now he was ready to confront what he must, and Eleanor’s presence would be most welcome. Indeed, it was a wife’s place to stand by her husband’s side. Together they would form a bulwark against the censure of the world. Henry dispatched the letter, then set about trying to repair the damage.
First and foremost the interdict must be officially lifted so that all church activities could go forward, Mass could be said, and the dead could be shriven, although Henry himself was ignoring it on the grounds that the archbishop of Sens did not have legal authority over Normandy. He requested that the archbishop of Rouen and several other prelates leave at once for Rome. With them would go a written message of explanations for the gross error that had produced such tragic results, a copy of FitzStephen’s statement that Thomas had absolved him of culpability, and what he, Henry, proposed to do by way of amends: any infringement of church rights in England would cease; in points of law the church would no longer be held responsible to the king alone; ample compensation would be made for the looting of Canterbury during Thomas’s six-year absence, and the primate’s adherents would be pardoned and left in the positions they presently occupied. In addition, as already promised, his son Harry would be crowned a second time the moment a new archbishop of Canterbury was appointed.
“Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa. I pray God these concessions satisfy His Holiness,” Henry said to his justiciar, conscious of the irony that Thomas had gained in death what had been denied him while he lived.
It was a frosty morning in early February. He and de Lucy stood in the courtyard watching the archbishop of Rouen’s party leave in solemn state to begin the journey to Rome.
De Lucy gave a mirthless laugh. “They are sweeping enough even to have satisfied the archbishop himself, God rest his soul, had he been here to pass judgment on them.”
Would anything have satisfied Thomas? Henry wondered with a sigh. The sun, moon, and stars all rolled together on a plate of silver? His eyes blurred with tears. For Thomas. For himself. For affinity betrayed and love corroded into hate; for dreams that flourished only to die.
News of the archbishop’s murder spread across England like wildfire, the tales and rumors growing in intensity with each passing day. Visions, manifestations, and miracles sprang up everywhere: the stone floor on which the archbishop fell was permanently stained with his blood and retained the marks of his fall. A blind man attached to the primate’s household touched his sightless eyes with the blood and regained his sight. Another man of Canterbury, dumb since birth, regained his speech when he applied the blood to his mouth. At Thomas’s funeral a choir of angels appeared and sang. After the obsequies were over and the body placed on a bier in the choir, the dead archbishop raised his hand to give the benediction.
Rosamund, who had still not recovered from the impact of the night at Aude’s cot, could hardly bear to listen to the horrific tale of the primate’s death as recounted to her by Hildi. At Woodstock she heard even more lurid details told with grisly relish by the head groom shortly after they had attended Sunday Mass in the chapel. When he said Thomas’s skull had been smashed, Rosamund suddenly remembered the pain in her head at Aude’s cot and started so violently she almost fell.
She wanted desperately to forget everything about that incident. Pretend it never happened. The idea of the sacrifice, of giving something back to nature, now frightened her just as much as the raw brutality of Thomas’s murder. In some strange way they seemed but two sides of the same coin, a mystery that she could not explain. Since that night, Rosamund had dreaded riding to the village. When she finally forced herself to go, the local folk seemed unusually friendly, going out of their way to talk to her, even inviting her to their homes. She had always been treated with cool courtesy, but now the villagers acted as if she were one of them. Although everyone openly deplored the martyrdom of Thomas Becket, she had the uneasy sense that the underlying feeling might be quite different. This only added to her fear and she resolved to withdraw from any further contact with Aude. Instead, Rosamund found herself thinking of Godstow, which she had not done in several years.
When, a fortnight later, she paid the nuns an unexpected visit with a gift of healing herbs for the infirmaress, everyone seemed genuinely pleased to see her. Reverend Mother greeted her effusively and told her that she had sorely been missed, adding she was always welcome at the priory, and how was King Henry? Was this change in Reverend Mother’s attitude prompted partly by self-interest for her priory, Rosamund wondered, an understandable desire to bring Godstow to the king’s attention? Perhaps the abbey no longer received benefices now that Queen Eleanor had left England. Perhaps, as well, Reverend Mother, like others, had not thought King Henry would remain interested in her for so long.
Whether due to the murder of Thomas, her exposure to pagan practices, or for reasons totally unbeknownst to her, Rosamund no longer felt estranged from the nuns. Instead she remembered the feelings of security she had experienced at Godstow, the familiar daily rituals and the predictable tranquility. How she longed for such a refuge now, a place where she could escape from the dark untamed forces of man and nature over which there was no control.