“I DEMAND TO SEE my husband,” said Eleanor angrily.
She was in the great hall of Chinon, where she had been taken after her capture in the forest several hours earlier, shocked to find how close they were to the castle. The four stony-faced guards who surrounded her did not answer.
“I am the duchess of Aquitaine, as well as countess of Anjou. I insist you let me see my husband!” Still wearing her chain mail, she crossed her arms over her chest.
There was no response from the guards but a moment later the castellan of Chinon, a man she knew well over the years, entered the great hall. Robust, with graying hair, he was usually jovial but his pale face now wore a grim look.
“Thank heaven,” said Eleanor. At last she would be treated with the respect and deference she was used to. “Theobald, please inform these guards of yours, who seem to have lost their wits, that I am not their prisoner but the countess of Anjou, wife to their lord, Count Henry. And I want to see him.”
“Madam,” he began in an agitated voice. “You are their prisoner, and mine as well. So the count himself instructed me, and I must obey his orders.”
Eleanor shook her head in disbelief. “Yes, I suppose I am in a way, if you choose to put it in those terms, but I still want to see him. Now!”
“He has left for Poitou, Madam, and I am to hold you here until I receive further instructions from him.”
Eleanor stepped forward, hands on her hips. “What do you mean hold me here? You have no right to hold me. If my husband is not here—” She paused; every instinct she possessed told her that Henry was indeed still there. “Then—then I will continue on to Paris.” She paused again. “Where is my escort?”
The castellan shook his head. “I have no knowledge of your escort, madam, but I have every right to hold you. While Count Henry is away I act in his name, as you well know. You are a prisoner here until the count says you may leave.”
Eleanor felt her stomach drop. She could tell he was lying about her escort but did not see what she could do about it. As for not being allowed to leave, that was preposterous.
“I am going to Paris, and I demand a new escort take me there.”
The castellan sighed. “I wish it were otherwise, madam, but you are forbidden to leave Chinon. Only Count Henry may release you.”
Forbidden to leave? Eleanor reeled back and clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. Henry could not have made her a prisoner. She felt her body tremble in mingled outrage and terror. It was impossible. She, queen of England, duchess of Aquitaine, countess of Anjou, a prisoner?
A noise outside the hall caught her attention and before anyone could stop her Eleanor darted toward the closed oaken doors of the great hall, the guards and castellan pounding after her. Breathless, she wrenched open the door just in time to see Henry descending the narrow staircase that led to the courtyard.
“Henry!”
At the sound of her cry she could see him come to an abrupt stop. His hand grasped the stair rail as if it were a spar and his whole body stiffened but he did not turn his head.
“Henry,” she cried again her voice laced with fear and anguish. “Henry, please. Let me talk to you, let me explain. Please, I beg of you. Henry!”
For an instant she saw his head—the russet hair covered by a blue cap adorned with the ever-present sprig of golden broom, the symbol his father had adopted for the House of Anjou and the planta genista that had given rise to the family name—move slightly as if he were about to turn and look at her. Her heart leapt in relief, but then he squared his shoulders and continued down the staircase.
“Henry! Henry! Henry!” She could hear herself screaming as she started to go after him, until the castellan caught her in an iron grip. Screaming still, she tried to twist out of his arms, but she felt her body being dragged back into the hall. The hall doors slammed shut behind her with a terrible finality.
On a fair morning in mid-May, Alais awakened to the sound of hoof beats pounding into the courtyard of the Maubergeonne Tower. A moment later Emma of Anjou burst into the chamber.
“My brother Henry has arrived. Up, all of you, at once.”
“Aunt Emma, has he said anything about my mother—” Joanna began.
“There is no time to answer questions. Just do as I bid.” Emma slammed the door behind her.
Alais, who slept in the same bed as her sister, shook the still-drowsing Marguerite and slid naked from under the coverlet, then padded over to the window slit. Horses, knights, and grooms milled below.
“Does this mean we can go home?” Little Constance of Brittany, who shared a bed with Joanna, rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
“I don’t know,” said Joanna with a catch in her voice.
Nor does anyone, thought Alais as she turned from the window slit.
She and the others had just completed dressing when King Henry marched into their upstairs chamber in a state of barely suppressed fury. “Make ready to ride to the coast by prime tomorrow,” he barked.
“Where—where are we going, Father?” Joanna ventured.
“You will find out when we get there.”
“I will need more time,” began Constance in her whiny voice.
“By prime tomorrow! Whoever is not ready will be left behind to fend for herself.”
He then slammed out of the chamber. When Alais arrived in the great hall a short while later, Henry was snarling orders to an ashen-faced seneschal, visibly shaken members of the palace mesnie, and agitated servitors. She did not know what to make of this seething, brutal stranger and wondered if there were some way she could return to Paris. For the first time she actually feared for her own safety. And Eleanor’s as well. Although everyone in the ducal palace had known for some months of Eleanor’s capture by the king’s forces, none knew what had actually happened to her. Emma of Anjou stoutly claimed that her half brother would never allow his wife to be harmed. But seeing him in his present rage and remembering the fate of Thomas Becket, Alais wondered if anyone could predict what King Henry would do.
Just before vespers, while the girls were hurriedly packing their belongings, they overheard a violent argument break out between Henry and Emma in an adjoining chamber. Shouts, curses, and threats were audible but not what they were arguing about. Finally Joanna, who had her ear pressed to the wall, burst into tears of relief.
“They are quarreling about my mother. She is alive, may Our Lady be thanked, and has been held at Chinon since October. My father is—wait—taking her to England! Emma is protesting something but I can’t quite make out what it is.”
Marguerite and Constance, even Alais, wept along with Joanna. This was the first time Alais had ever heard anyone except the young king and Eleanor raise a voice to King Henry. Shortly thereafter, Emma, her blue eyes flashing, stormed into their chamber, wild with anger.
“He is a monster, a bully, an evil-hearted fiend from hell and I will never speak to him again! From this moment forth I renounce him as my brother. Never again mention his name in my presence.”
While Alais and the others watched in stunned disbelief, Emma picked up an ivory box and threw it across the room. Rings, necklaces, and brooches flew in every direction. She refused to explain any details of the quarrel, only that the girls would be going to England. Alais and the others left the next morning for Honfleur in Normandy. Emma kissed them and with an icy glance at her half brother marched back inside the Maubergeonne Tower. Alais knew she would never forget Emma’s boldness in standing up to King Henry.
It was only after a stormy voyage across the Channel, when everyone was safely installed at Windsor Castle, that the girls learned that Eleanor had also been transported to England in another vessel. No one would tell them where she had been taken. Joanna, certain she would never see her mother again, was now actually eager to marry the king of Sicily in order to escape from her roaring father. Marguerite sobbed that Harry was lost to her forever; little Constance of Brittany screamed at the top of her lungs that she wanted to go home to Nantes.
All of them had been shipped to this alien land as if they were no better than mares or serfs, and Alais bitterly resented it. But she was also afraid. Afraid to ask what would happen to them—or to Eleanor.
On Midsummer Day, Rosamund was awakened at dawn by a groom from Godstow Abbey with a message: Reverend Mother wanted to see her as soon as may be. Did this mean that the prioress had made a decision on her latest application to join the convent? Rosamund wondered as she hastily pulled a rose-colored kirtle over her chemise. The sisters had grown to accept her during the last few years, grateful for her help to the infirmaress and to ailing animals on the abbey’s home farm—a very different attitude from the one eight years earlier when the nuns had been openly disapproving of her liaison with King Henry. The prioress, torn between loyalty to Queen Eleanor, who was a patron of Godstow, and fear of offending the king, had been acutely embarrassed by her presence.
In pleasurable anticipation, Rosamund mounted her horse and set out for the abbey, taking a shortcut across the apple orchard on the far side of the castle. Through a filigree of white blossoms, she gazed up into a cloudless blue sky. An early morning breeze shook the boughs of the trees. Leaves rustled, then a brown bird flashed from branch to branch of the apple tree above her, close enough that Rosamund could hear the beat of its wings. A feeling of peace enveloped her.
Humming a Welsh air, she trotted through a green meadow and let Bronwin carefully pick her way down a gentle slope into the wooded valley, which housed the priory of Godstow. Sunlight glistened on the rust-colored church roof, turning the tip of its thrusting spire into a dazzle of gold. An abbey porter opened one of the gates and she rode through the double-gated entrance, dismounted, and tied Bronwin to a wood post in front of the prioress’s quarters.
Inside the unadorned chamber with its whitewashed walls and polished wood floor, Reverend Mother, her calm face encased in a starched white wimple, sat in a high-backed chair behind an oak table.
“Benedicte, Rosamund.” She pointed to a stool. “You are well?”
“Yes, Reverend Mother.” Rosamund seated herself.
“Your family thrives?”
Mystified, she nodded. “So I understand.” Rosamund had been infinitely relieved to hear of her father’s death several years earlier; she had shed no tears for him. Although, oddly enough, after the exorcism and its horrifying revelation, she hardly ever thought about him much. Almost as if bedding Henry had blotted out his image, and much of her feelings as well. She had been overjoyed to be reunited with her brother, Walter, who had paid her several visits. But Reverend Mother could not have sent for her merely to inquire about her family.
After a moment the abbess cleared her throat. “There is nothing to be gained by putting off ill news. You know how much we value you here, my child, and I would like nothing better than to welcome you into our community.” She hesitated.
Rosamund’s feeling of peace vanished.
“But you are well aware that our abbey is entirely dependent upon the benefices King Henry and Queen Eleanor have sent us,” Reverend Mother said apologetically. “Thus, without the king’s blessing in this matter, I would be loath to accept you. Naturally I hoped he would accede to your wishes and provide you with the required dowry. Indeed I intended to do all I could on your behalf. In the light of recent events however, that no longer seems feasible.”
Rosamund slumped dejectedly on her stool. “Recent events? I do not understand.”
Reverend Mother drew back in surprise. “Is it possible you have not heard? I was sure the grim tidings would have spread all over Oxfordshire by now.”
Rosamund felt her stomach lurch in alarm. “I have not left Everswell for some days. What has happened?”
Clasping her hands in agitation, the prioress rose to her feet. “Queen Eleanor has been immured in Old Sarum Castle at Salisbury.”
Rosamund, sure she could not have heard aright, stared at the Prioress in disbelief. “The king has imprisoned the queen?”
She nodded as she resumed her seat. “Over the years we have heard rumors that the queen was one of the powers behind the uprisings on the Continent, but dismissed these as slander whose purpose was to discredit the king.”
“But it was put about that Queen Eleanor had escaped to France.” Rosamund still could not take it in. It was simply not possible to imprison a great personage like Eleanor of Aquitaine—or so she had always believed.
“That is what we all assumed. Now it turns out that she was secretly held captive at Chinon before being sent to England. The bishop of Oxford told me himself that King Henry is said to be in a towering rage and beyond all reason. Everyone is terrified. No one knows what he will do.”
Rosamund felt faint. “Holy Mary Virgin, he would never harm the queen!”
“I agree it would be most unlikely.” Reverend Mother murmured a prayer then crossed herself again. “But, in all truth, one does hear dreadful tales of powerful lords who cast their wives aside. First they are immured in remote convents, where they die convenient deaths. This leaves the lords free to marry again. Not that I think King Henry is capable of such wickedness,” she added hastily, “and in the case of Queen Eleanor, of course, a duchess in her own right, such extreme measures would be difficult to execute.”
Rosamund felt a chill of horror pass through her. “King Henry could never be so cruel and vindictive. Not—not after his anger has cooled.”
“Let us pray you are right. Meanwhile, I must assume that whatever benefices the queen sent us will cease at once.” The prioress fingered the silver crucifix depending from the chain around her neck. “Once the king arrives in England he will no doubt come to Woodstock and you can judge his state of mind for yourself. You might also ask him about joining the order at Godstow, if that is still your intention.”
“Of course it is still my intention. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Reverend Mother’s keen gray eyes searched her face for a long moment. “Yes, I see that now.” Relief was evident in her voice. “And may the Holy Mother absolve me for the unworthy thought that crossed my mind. Still, under the circumstances I dare not involve Godstow, as you can readily understand. The matter lies in your hands.”
She rose from her chair and escorted Rosamund to the door. “It behooves us to remember that Queen Eleanor, however wrongly she has behaved, may have been sorely provoked.” Reverend Mother sighed. “Not that that is any excuse for her treacherous behavior, and I do not offer it as such. To try and depose an anointed sovereign is a fearful thing. All we can hope for now is that the queen is treated with kindness and mercy, and is given the opportunity to repent of her wicked actions.”
“I will pray for her,” said Rosamund, her own disappointment overshadowed by the news of Queen Eleanor’s imprisonment.
Greatly distressed, she mounted her mare and rode from the abbey. Henry would indeed be wild with fury over his wife’s betrayal. With a shudder, Rosamund remembered how he had responded to Thomas Becket’s defiant behavior. Accusations of treachery. Threats and curses. The more he loved someone, it seemed, the greater his rage at their betrayal.
Distracted, she found she had taken the road that led to Oxford instead of the track that led to Everswell, but did not turn back. From some distant pasture came the faint tinkle of a sheep’s bell. A light wind sprang up and the green-leafed boughs of the trees sighed in unison.
Something nagged at her, something Reverend Mother had said, that the queen might have been “sorely provoked.” Had the prioress meant that she, Rosamund, was the one who had provoked her? Although it had never been her intention to cause harm, Rosamund knew that she had been the unwitting cause of the initial rift between Henry and his queen. If this had helped set in motion the grim series of events that followed, was she partly to blame for Queen Eleanor’s confinement? Was the agony of the past to be repeated all over again?
Echoing in her ears was the sound of her mother’s strident voice, accusing her of disrupting the household at Bredelais, of being a source of trouble. A female Jonah. Tears stung Rosamund’s eyes. When she first came to Woodstock, she’d warned Henry that she would bring him ill fortune, but he had laughed at her for being a superstitious goose. In the intervening years she had tried so hard to do good, to make up for the sin of engaging in adultery, for all the damage she had done. Now more than ever she was determined to take the veil. Somehow she must persuade Henry to let her enter the abbey.
Until Rosamund passed the fringe of beech trees that hid Aude’s dwelling from the road, she had not consciously known her destination. After a moment’s hesitation, she wheeled her mare around and turned down the narrow path. Nestled in amongst the trees at the edge of the dark woods lay the cot, a spiral of gray smoke floating out through the hole in the thatched roof. From time to time, always accompanied by Hildi, Rosamund had come to ask questions about which herbs to use for a particular ailment. Once she had brought a hound that needed a bone set in one of its hind legs. Grateful for Aude’s help, Rosamund had repaid her with silver, then hurriedly taken her leave. In truth, she felt reluctant to spend any time with the old woman since that terrifying night of Thomas Becket’s martyrdom four years earlier. And when Hildi had left her service the past October to marry a farmer, she had stopped visiting Aude altogether.
Once again, Rosamund felt the familiar frisson of fear prick at the nape of her neck. She heard a gentle caw, and was startled to see a black raven perched on one of the eves preening its satiny feathers. Slowly dismounting, she tied Bronwin to a rowan tree. When she looked again the bird was gone. A hazel bough, the ancient symbol of wisdom, was set in front of the doorway and Rosamund stepped carefully over it. When there was no response to her knock, she hesitated before slowly pushing open the door. Inside it was clean and neat as it always was, the floor well covered with straw; the oak table held pots of ointment and herbs and two white candles made of fine wax that flickered in pewter holders. Embers burned in the hearth and a black cauldron warmed on an iron trivet. In a far corner of the room she spied what looked like a lump lying on a pile of straw pallets, covered with a blanket.
“Aude?” Rosamund whispered.
The lump moved. Bony hands scrabbled to push the blanket down. The familiar head covered in a black kerchief raised itself up from several pillows. “Aye.” The voice was raspy, like a croak. Wizened and frail-looking, Aude pushed herself up. “Can’t say as I be surprised to see ye, lass. Find yeself a place to sit.”
“You sound as if you were expecting me.”
“Perhaps I was, and then again perhaps I wasn’t.” She chuckled. “Mayhap hoping I’d see ye again. Won’t be long now afore I goes to me doom.”
Dismayed, Rosamund seated herself on the edge of a wooden stool. “Are you ill? Is there aught I can do?”
The beady black eyes stared into hers. “Nay, lass, not ill. Old. Naught to be done about that, be there? It be the natural way o’ things.” She pointed to one of the flagons on the table. “I could do with a sip o’ elderberry wine though. Clears me head something wonderful.”
Rosamund brought the flagon over to her. Aude took a deep draught and sighed. “I continues to hear good things about ye healing animals, lass. Twin calves ye helped birth last Mayday be the talk o’ the village. Always said ye had the gift.”
Her face flushed with pleasure. “I owe a lot of my ability to you.” She smiled at Aude, who grunted in reply.
“Now then, lass, suppose ye tells me why ye be here after all this time. Must be nigh on, let me see, when the river last flooded from the autumn rains, that be when it were.” Like most country folk, Aude reckoned time by what had happened, not by years.
After a moment’s hesitation, Rosamund sat down again and told Aude what had just transpired at Godstow, her feeling of guilt about Queen Eleanor, and why she so desperately wanted to become a nun.
“I suppose I came for advice. How to get King Henry’s agreement. He does not forbid me to become a nun, exactly; after all, he would not have the right. But—I can’t really explain—somehow I lose my resolution when I am with him. And Reverend Mother is fearful of crossing him now that the king has made his wife a prisoner. After all, she has the welfare of Godstow to think about.”
Aude pulled herself upright against the pillows and eyed her slantwise, like a bird with its head cocked. “What do does ye want me to do?”
“I’m not sure. To know what will happen. To advise me.” Rosamund shook her head in despair.
Aude raised her brows in surprise. “Well. Sometimes I has the second sight and sometimes not. Nor can I change what I sees. Are ye sure ye wants me to try?”
Is that what she wanted?
Aude pointed silently to one of the pewter candleholders, then beckoned to Rosamund to come closer. With a sudden leap of her heart, Rosamund knelt on the straw beside the pallet, putting the candleholder down beside her. The soft light illumined Aude’s narrow brown face. Suddenly her clawed hands shot up and seized Rosamund’s head between them. Crooning unintelligible words she began to sway back and forth.
Rosamund felt a prickling chill start at the base of her skull and shoot down her spine. She tried to move her head but Aude’s hands were like iron talons and she could not break away. Unblinking eyes, like bottomless black pools, held her in thrall, and in their depths she saw her own image. Slowly, slowly she felt herself slip away into their shadowy darkness. Behind the dark shadow lay something unseen, something lying in wait for her. In another moment the thing would move and she would see who or what cast the shadow. Already she could sense it moving toward her, reaching out. Just another instant then she would see, then she would know . . .
Suddenly Aude let her go so abruptly Rosamund almost fell backward. “No,” the old woman muttered under her breath. “Best leave it be. Wait till the fates bring it. None can escape their hour.”
Dazed, as if awakened from a dream, Rosamund put her hands over her eyes. “What happened?”
“Naught that need concern ye now, lass.” Aude sank back on the pillows breathing heavily.
Rosamund could still feel the imprint of Aude’s fingers gripping her temples but the terrifying moment was already fading even while her mind tried to clutch at the shreds of what remained.
“Is what I saw to do with my future?” She struggled to her feet.
“What did ye see?”
But it was gone, just as though it had never been. “I can’t remember now.” She put a hand over her forehead. “I suppose I really wanted to know what will happen to poor Queen Eleanor.”
Aude cackled like an old hen. “Ye need never worry about that one, lass. The queen have a life force no one can quench. She be under the protection of the Mother.”
Rosamund wished she could dismiss Eleanor’s fate so easily, but it was reassuring to hear she was under the protection of Our Lady. Suddenly anxious to be gone, she walked over to the door and pulled it open, aware of Aude’s dark gaze following her. “Thank you, Aude,” she whispered. “May the Holy Mother protect you.”
It had been a mistake to come, she thought, mounting Bronwin and spurring her down the track. Well, not a mistake exactly, because she did feel a certain calmness of spirit that had not been there earlier, and the guilt dragging at her was eased. And that was the strangeness of it, really, now that she thought about it. Aude had not advised her in any way, or even mentioned her future. All the way back to Everswell, Rosamund had the vague impression that she was not alone; out of the corner of her eye she thought she glimpsed a raven flying overhead. But when she lifted her head to look nothing was there.
In early July, Henry landed at Southampton just as he had done two years earlier. Once again, Richard de Lucy and a troop of knights awaited him on the beach. No monks this time. They knew he would be going to them. The night darkness was fading fast and a thread of silver light heralded the approaching dawn as Henry mounted a gray destrier and rode from the beach.
“Everything is in order?” he asked the co-justiciar as they took the coast road.
“Yes, my lord king. The ships arrived last sennight and those aboard were sent to the places you designated.”
“Queen—” Henry could not bring himself to name her. “She is held securely?”
“Safely immured in Salisbury and beyond all chance of rescue,” de Lucy replied. After an awkward silence he said, “ I must congratulate you, my lord king, on having successfully broken the back of the enemy.”
“The danger is not yet over.” The air was filled with mist and it was difficult to see the road ahead. “Harry and Geoffrey remain in Paris with Louis, and Richard still battles my forces in Poitou.” Henry felt his chest tighten at the thought of his sons’ continued intransigence. “But they will keep for the moment. First things first. I must get through my penance, root out the rebels in England, those that remain, then complete my work on the Continent.”
The prospect of what he must endure at Canterbury turned Henry’s stomach but he knew he could put it off no longer. He had left the Continent in the midst of ongoing hostilities in order to get the ordeal over with, and to ensure that his captives were being dealt with as ordered. He also reasoned that it would be easier to quell the rebellion in England once it was known that a main instigator of the revolt on the Continent was now imprisoned at Salisbury. Henry’s hands convulsively gripped the reins and his destrier swerved.
“What news of our campaign against Scotland?” Henry asked, after relaxing his grip. The Scottish king and his troops had invaded Northumberland and Henry had ordered the entire knight service of England to be called out.
“The marshal sent Ranulf de Glanville and his men north barely a month ago. It is too soon to expect results but I doubt not we shall have them.”
Henry sensed that too. God was with him in this; everything pointed to divine intervention on his behalf, else why had he been able to gather together his resources so swiftly and raise funds to procure men and equipment at barely a moment’s notice? The sky grew lighter.
“Soon we can celebrate a complete victory over our enemies,” said de Lucy.
But it would be a hollow victory and the knowledge brought Henry no joy. Once, many years earlier, he had been aboard a small craft on the Channel when a monstrous wave almost capsized the vessel. Miraculously, he had survived, but the experience had left him so battered and shaken he had never forgotten it. That was how he felt at the moment. Battered and shaken to his very soul. By the skin of his teeth he had foiled his enemies’ plots and defeated them in battles, but to what end?
Supposedly loyal vassals had defied him; his overlord of France had broken faith with him. His sons had risen against him, if not at their mother’s behest then certainly with her connivance. In truth, the betrayal of his sons, bitter and painful as it might be, he could in some way understand, although not condone. It was, perhaps, in the nature of colts to attempt to flout their sire. But Henry knew he would never understand, or come to terms with—he made himself say it—Eleanor’s blatant treachery.
Not only had she come uncomfortably close to destroying his empire, she had made him look a fool in the eyes of his peers. How mighty was the mighty Plantagenet if his own wife had come within a hairsbreadth of toppling his vast holdings? Eleanor may not have directly instigated the rebellion against him, but she had connived with those rebels who had wanted to destroy him. Certainly she had had the will to support his enemies, more men upholding her cause than his, if one included all the disaffected vassals and their troops—seemingly everything needed to accomplish his downfall. What she lacked was the ability to select able cohorts, a well-thought-out plan, and the military experience required to organize a unified resistance. In the end, it was Eleanor’s hubris, and the fact that she had grossly underestimated him, that had been her undoing.
In his ears Henry could hear the mocking laughter of all Europe. The shameful realization that probably everyone had suspected Eleanor but him made his belly writhe, his face flush with heat, and his hands clench on the reins. To think he had once loved this woman, relied on her as much as he had allowed himself to rely on anyone in his life, perhaps more—the agony and humiliation would gnaw at him until the end of his days. God’s eyes! It might have been easier to bear if she had put a pair of horns on him! In his ears he could still hear the sound of her screams, her pleas for him to listen, and he hardened his heart, promising himself that Eleanor would pay, she would spend her life paying.
Henry’s destrier stumbled on a rut in the road and brought him up short. There was a damp wind blowing and the skies were still gray with mist. “You have kept my arrival at Canterbury secret?”
“We have taken every precaution.”
With how much success? Henry wondered. In order to avoid undue notice, he insisted they ride along the coast, keeping to the back roads and skirting the larger towns like Chichester where he might be easily recognized. By midafternoon they approached Hastings, and Henry knew he must stop for food or fall from his horse. As he rode through the fog-filled streets, he could see the outline of Battle Abbey, founded by the Conqueror to mark the place where he had slain his great enemy, Harold Godwinson, who had been the rightful king of England.
The party stopped at an inn that looked to be frequented by fishermen and sailors, refreshed themselves with brown ale and a hearty fish stew, then continued on their journey. Exhausted, Henry forced himself to ride on, stopping only at Ashford for a hurried meal and a change of horses. They rode through the night and arrived on the outskirts of Canterbury just as the bells were ringing for prime.
At the chapel of St. Nicholas on the edge of the city, Henry tried to dismount and almost fell from his horse in utter weariness. Stiff-legged, he walked to St. Dunstan’s Oratory, put on a hair shirt and, over that, a pilgrim’s gown. A burning sun rose on the blue horizon as Henry, elmwood staff in one hand, a penny in the other, strode alone through the streets of Canterbury. Despite all precautions, word of his coming had obviously spread and the streets were lined with people. Henry braced himself for accusations, outcries, refuse thrown in his face, even sneers, but there wasn’t a sound.
All the faces looked the same: sullen, filled with a watchful intent, somewhat stunned by the sight of the redoubtable King Henry of England walking on bare feet—which had already started to bleed—and in humble gown like the most common penitent. Henry set his jaw, kept his head high, and met each gaze with a challenging stare. Let the rabble gawk, God curse them, snigger at him, make mock, think whatever they would. He had agreed to do penance and, by the Apostle, penance he would do.
But by the time Henry reached the cathedral he wondered if he could go through with what lay ahead: his feet were covered in blood and the pain was intense. He was met by a group of stony-faced priors and bishops as well as the monks of Christ Church, Canterbury. At his command, the huge doors, already thrown open, were left that way so that the great rabble outside could bear witness. Henry was aware of everyone’s eyes upon him as he dropped to his knees then prostrated himself on the stones where Thomas had fallen. He willed himself to rise, hobbled to the crypt, and lay outstretched before the tomb.
“As God is my witness,” he confessed in a loud voice, “I did not will the death of Thomas the Martyr. But due to the heinous words I spoke I am responsible. Heavenly Father, in your infinite mercy, forgive me my wickedness, absolve me of the sin of pride.”
He had carefully prepared what he would say, and his words were not uttered lightly. “Forgive me, Thomas,” he whispered aloud. “Before God, my confession is true. If I could call back that black moment, I would never have spoken as I did.”
Then, as agreed with the prior of Christ Church beforehand, Henry bared his back, and braced himself for the first whiplash to strike. He glanced up and saw a black-robed monk raise his arm above his head. Henry shut his eyes, hearing the whoosh of the cord as it descended, wincing as it seared his shoulders. The monks were to strike him three times, the high officers of Canterbury five. The blows rained down one after the other and he lost count. He tried to think of other things but in the end the pain became so unbearable that he cried out again and again, his voice no longer recognizable as his own but sounding like an animal being slaughtered.
Then he lost awareness and when he woke it was dark, and he was still lying in front of the crypt. Stretched prone, unable to move, his body felt on fire. No help would be forthcoming for by agreement he must spend the night before the martyr’s tomb. Finally Henry lifted his head, looked up, and saw all around him the flicker of what seemed like hundreds upon hundreds of candles. Sweet Jesu! Half of the townspeople must be crowded into the cathedral. Did they gloat with pleasure to see this mighty sovereign brought so low?
When he laid his head back down on the stone it felt sticky and he realized he was lying in a pool of his own blood. Throughout the night as he dozed, awoke, dozed again, awoke, sometimes groaning in pain, whenever he opened his eyes he saw the lights still flickering above his head, keeping staunch vigil with him. It was only much later that he wondered if he could have endured that night of Calvary without the presence of all those candles to remind him that he was not alone.
At first light he tried to rise, but his body was so stiff and in such agony from his lacerated back that he could only crawl. Unknown arms reached down and lifted him to his feet, put the staff in one hand, and escorted him out of the cathedral. The sackcloth and hair shirt were stuck to his back in tatters of congealed blood, as Henry, in agony, slowly inched his way along the path he had taken the previous day. Once again, the streets were thronged with people, but this time they did not resemble a faceless menacing throng. To his amazement he could actually separate them: sturdy yeomen, bearded merchants, a few yellow-robed Semites. A toothless hag in gray shawl held out a wooden crucifix, a plump mother with hair like buttercups lifted a babe toward him, and a tall cotter, a boy sitting astride his shoulders, offered him a wooden cup of wine that he drank gratefully. Three knavish-looking youths in grimy jerkins and worn leather caps stood together, all clutching oakwood staves.
The onlookers were silent, as they had been the day before. But the silence had a different feel to it and the faces! Sweet Jesu! The faces, many of them, were wet with tears. For me? Are these tears for me? For their martyred archbishop? For themselves? The answer came from his heart. For all. He was their king. In doing penance for his sins he was also doing penance for those watching, as kings had done since time out of mind. One of the rough-looking youths slowly raised his staff in a gesture of obvious respect, and for the first time in, God knew how many years, Henry felt the wordless connection, the knot, the silver cord that bound him to his subjects.
“Well, Thomas, has justice been served?” he asked aloud. He felt the familiar presence all around him, a benign shade, still keeping watch and ward over his flock.
When Henry reached the oratory, he fainted. Later, when he awoke, his back and feet had been washed, soothed with an ointment, and dressed. Someone gave him a goblet to drink, and Henry recognized the taste of poppy mixed with warm wine and honey.
“I must go to London,” he whispered. “I did—my penance. Now—go to—London.”
He slept, woke to feel himself being lifted onto a litter, then slept again. When Henry next awakened, it was to the peal of all the church bells in London. He looked dazedly around and realized he was in a familiar chamber at Tower Royal. Still tired but refreshed—it was the soundest night’s sleep he had had in months—he gingerly moved his back and legs. Sore and stiff as yet but there was much less pain. Why were the bells ringing? As if in answer to his thought there was a loud knock on the door.
His body servant, Milo, entered, along with Henry’s treasurer and a messenger from his sheriff, Ranulf de Glanville, with the news that de Glanville held the king of Scots in chains at Richmond.
Henry smote a fist into his open palm, and let out his breath in an exultant sigh. God’s eyes! The Scottish king defeated and captured.
His heart took fire from this glorious news. The messenger left and his treasurer, Richard FitzNigel, handed the elmwood staff to Henry, who hobbled over to the window slit in the wall. Past the gates of the tower he could see people gathering in the streets, throwing their caps in the air, hugging one another.
“Nothing like the defeat of an old enemy to renew confidence in the king, eh my lord treasurer?” Thank you, Thomas, Henry whispered to himself. Thank you, old friend.
“The Scottish king is only the beginning,” Henry continued aloud as he limped back to the bed. “When I recover from these wounds I will bring the English rebels to heel. After that I intend to cross the Channel and demand that Louis and my errant sons officially surrender on my terms. Victory, FitzNigel, victory over all my enemies!”
FitzNigel, thin and dry as an old stick of wood, smiled. “It was only a question of time before the mighty learned what I could have told them long since: it is no easy task to wrest Hercules’s club from his hand.”
Henry sank back against the pillows with a smile. A clever remark. He must remember to tell Eleanor, he thought, before the breath caught in his throat and he had to choke back an anguished cry. He had felt the shock of her betrayal, fury at her deceit, bitterness at her guile. But until this moment he had not suffered the searing pain of her loss.