Prologue

Rouen, 1162

ON A HOT DAY in mid-July, Henry II Plantagenet, king of England, sat in the garden of the ducal palace at Rouen surrounded by his family. The sun blazed down from a glittering pale-blue sky; roses and lilies drugged the air with their sweetness. A light wind stirred the filigree of lacy green leaves on the flowering chestnut. In the background he could hear the murmur of conversation from servitors and female attendants mingled with the sound of a minstrel’s lute and a plaintive voice singing a love song.

How good it was to sit drowsily in the sun, basking in an unaccustomed tranquility, savoring this moment of quiet happiness. So much of his life was spent in constant motion, riding through his vast empire in a tireless effort to see justice done, ensuring his subjects were at peace, his lands safe. Sometimes Henry felt life slipping by while he fought to keep the reins of power under his control. Soon that would change, he reminded himself. Now that his chancellor, closest companion, and trusted confidant, Thomas Becket, had been made Archbishop of Canterbury, much of the burden would be lifted.

Through half-closed eyes, Henry turned toward Eleanor, his beloved queen, cool and lovely in her rose-colored tunic and matching headdress. Seated next to him on the cushioned stone bench, she read aloud to their six-year-old, Matilda, from a gold- and purple-lettered Book of Days. Idly he reached out a hand and caressed her knee. A meaningful glance from her brilliant hazel eyes, accompanied by a slow sensual smile, brought back with a tingle of pleasure the memory of the previous night’s passionate revels.

Henry’s gaze passed on to his mother, Maud, dozing under the chestnut. Regal in gray and mauve, she looked every inch her self-styled title of empress. Although she had once been the empress of Germany before returning to England, that had been many years ago. His eyes lingered affectionately on her resolute face. Without her heroic efforts on his behalf, he would not now be the king of England, count of Anjou, and duke of Normandy. He owed her everything.

Baby Eleanor, fast asleep, stirred in his arms and Henry shifted his leg to make her more comfortable. A short distance away, his second and third sons, Richard and Geoffrey, five and three, were learning the art of balancing small swords, points capped, and wielding little shields under the protective eye of a sergeant-at-arms. Geoffrey, slender and russet-haired, the cleverer of the two, was no match for the older, broad-shouldered Richard, a natural warrior even at this young age. Golden hair matted to his forehead, Richard’s fierce blue eyes were fixed upon his brother with intense concentration.

“Geoffrey, mind how you move your feet.” Henry jabbed his finger to the left. “No, no, no! To the left! God’s eyes, don’t lower your shield, that will give him an opening. That’s it, that’s it. Well done.” He nodded at Richard. “You make a formidable opponent, my son.”

Never articulate, Richard swallowed, obviously overwhelmed by these rare words of praise. Poor lad. Henry knew the boy was starved for the attention he never felt able to give him.

“They should wear helms,” Eleanor called to the sergeant, looking up from her book. “Less dangerous.”

As the sergeant led the boys away to a deserted part of the courtyard, Henry murmured, “I wonder why I hold myself aloof from Richard.”

“He’s always put your back up, for no discernible reason.”

“You’re right, Nell. Unfair really, but there it is.”

The jarring sound of hooves abruptly shattered the afternoon’s tranquility. Henry frowned. “God’s eyes, what’s this?”

Baby Eleanor woke up and began to cry. Henry rose to his feet and gently deposited her into the arms of a waiting nurse.

“Who has arrived?” Eleanor closed the book and laid it on the bench.

“Members of my council, it seems.”

He watched his co-justiciars, the marshal of England, and their entourage dismount. Grime streaked their flushed faces; sweat dripped from under their caps. The horses stood with heaving flanks while grooms ran to attend them. Ridden hard, poor beasts. A matter of some urgency then, but what?

One of the justiciars, Robert de Beaumont, Earl of Leicester, handed Henry a small packet together with a square of parchment. For a moment he stared at it, as, unaccountably, his heart began to pound. With unwilling fingers he opened the packet. Inside, wrapped in blue cloth, lay the Great Seal of England. Uncomprehending, he looked up at the earl.

“Why has Thomas Becket sent me his chancellor’s seal?”

“Because he has resigned his chancellorship, my lord king.” Leicester’s expression was grim. “He claims he cannot cleave to both God and the royal will.”

“But—but—” Henry shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t understand. The whole point of making Thomas Archbishop of Canterbury was that he would also remain as chancellor to ensure harmony between church and state.”

To ensure royal control of both church and state was more apt, but Leicester and the others already knew that. Henry hesitated, then forced himself to break the green wax seal on the parchment. As the words leapt out his face grew hot and his hands began to twitch.

“Thomas has betrayed me,” he said, his voice trembling with mingled rage and hurt. “Why? Why? Did I not love and trust him as deeply as any brother? Did I not raise him from the dust to the very peak of power and wealth?” The Great Seal of England slipped from his hands. “I have not deserved such disloyalty.”

“Of course not,” said Eleanor, her face pale. She gripped his shoulder protectively.

“Did I not warn you he was consumed by ambition?” the empress Maud said in a tight voice. “Why did Thomas not tell you that he could not be both primate and chancellor when you first offered Canterbury?” The question hung unanswered. “Now, as archbishop, he is your equal in power.”

Henry glanced at his wife and mother, their faces wearing almost identical expressions of grave concern. But was there also a glint of triumph? Both had warned him not to appoint Thomas to the See of Canterbury. Now they were proved right, he wrong. Henry turned angrily away, as though his wife and his mother were to blame.

“Ungrateful rogue,” said John the marshal, following his own line of attack. “He should be horsewhipped naked through the streets of Canterbury for all to see. An example must be made.”

“He will suffer more than that before I’m through,” Henry said between clenched teeth. “By God’s splendor he will rue the day he was born, my lords, I promise you.”

“Can we not request the pope to depose him?” Eleanor asked.

“As I have only recently asked the Holy Father to confirm Thomas’s appointment, which was done; that would make me look a proper fool.” Henry scrunched the missive in one hand, then threw it on the ground next to the seal. “Easier to make an archbishop than unmake one.”

Suddenly he began to sway; the earth rocked under his feet, the courtyard tilted to one side, and control slipped away even as he fought to hold on to it. Dimly, with that corner of his mind that remained the observer, Henry felt his body crash to the ground, could hear a voice—it must be his—mouthing gibberish. Fingers clawed the dry grass, his legs thrashed wildly against the hard earth. Shouts echoed in his ears. He felt someone roll him over and thrust a piece of wood between his teeth.

When he opened his eyes, anxious faces loomed above him, the earth was restored to its normal aspect, and the seizure’s grip began to loose its savage hold. It was always this way upon awakening. Memory returned slowly, then picked up speed as his head began to clear. The realization of Thomas’s treachery was so overwhelming that Henry could scarcely breathe. Solicitous arms raised him up. Still unsteady on his feet, he waved away any more help. Loss of control—which occurred every time a seizure of rage possessed him—was always deeply humiliating.

“I am all right,” he said thickly. “Leave me.” He felt rather than saw the others melt away.

Alone in the courtyard, Henry knew that this golden afternoon that had started out so joyously would be forever fixed in his mind. All his plans and hopes for the future of his realm lay in ruins about him, undone by the man whom he had believed to be the very linchpin of his administration. By his treasonous behavior, Thomas Becket had forever changed not only his loving friendship with his king but his own fate, and perhaps all England’s, as well.