ON A MILD APRIL morning in the year of 1161, Eleanor approached the city gates of the cathedral town of Canterbury. She rode through the bustling streets and came upon the cathedral itself just as the bells tolled for Sext. John of Salisbury, an important member of the archbishop’s household and the most respected Latinist in England, was waiting for her in the courtyard.
“You have arrived too late, Madam. Our saintly Theobald, may God give him rest, died shortly after Terce this morning.”
“I’m so very sorry.” Eleanor signed herself, and with the help of two grooms awkwardly dismounted, aware of the shocked expression on John’s face at the sight of her body, already cumbersome with the child she would bear in September.
“I had no idea Theobald was so seriously ill,” she continued. “I’m truly shocked.”
This was the truth. The archbishop’s death, a blow to her, would be an even greater blow for England. The former monk from Bec, known for his humility and piety, was loved by all. Although Theobald had been against her at the start of her marriage to Henry—due to gossip from France, Eleanor felt certain—they had taken an unexpected liking to one another. Despite her antipathy toward churchmen in general, Eleanor had greatly respected the archbishop.
“Madam, you shouldn’t have come in your—condition,” said John, averting red-rimmed eyes. “I did not know—that is to say, I appreciate—my master would have appreciated your concern. But should you be riding this far from London?”
“Only a two-day ride, pray do not worry,” said Eleanor, noting the man’s hostile expression soften somewhat. “I’m heartsick at our great loss. The king will be devastated when he hears of it.”
John gave a mirthless laugh. “That would indeed surprise me, Madam. Theobald has sent many times to the king and his chancellor, begging them both to visit him. His deathbed wish was to look upon Thomas Becket’s face one last time—a wish not granted. According to the chancellor, the king could not spare him. We at Canterbury are no less shocked by such base ingratitude.”
Taken aback at this outburst, Eleanor did not know what to say. It was a harsh judgment and far from politic for John to voice it, but she decided to overlook his indiscretion in light of the tragic circumstances. It came as no surprise to her that Becket, having used the archbishop as a stepping-stone to greater heights, should abandon him when his usefulness came to an end. That others might blame Henry was another matter entirely. She would have to find some way of smoothing John’s ruffled feathers.
She took him aside to a less crowded part of the courtyard. “In truth, matters have not gone well in Normandy and Anjou; Brittainy causes trouble, even my own duchy is restive. I know you will be discreet in this matter?” When John nodded, she continued. “The king dares not leave the Continent lest war break out with Louis of France.”
John’s face cleared. “I had no idea—nor did the archbishop—that matters had come to such a pass. On the contrary, we believed that the king’s affairs prospered.”
“Quite the reverse. The king did not want to worry Theobald while he was ill. That is why he sent me—despite my condition—as his representative. I return to Normandy almost at once. The king prays you will understand.”
“Of course, of course. By the Mass, that puts a different face on matters. It was most thoughtful of the king to send you. Please tell him I said so.” John’s voice had warmed considerably. “This explains why Becket was unable to visit the archbishop. I wish he had told us how matters stood.”
Eleanor shrugged. “I cannot answer for the chancellor. Only the king.”
There was not a word of truth in what she had told John but that could not be helped. Nor was Becket’s reputation her concern; only Henry’s.
A day later, after she had paid her respects to the dead and left the late archbishop’s grief-stricken household, Eleanor wondered if Henry had thought about Theobald’s successor. It was not a matter they had ever discussed. In theory, of course, the monks of Canterbury elected their own archbishop, but the king’s candidate was invariably the monks’ choice. She remembered a dispatch she had seen, one that Henry had written to the monks of Winchester, which, at the time, had greatly amused her: “I order you to hold a free election, but nevertheless I forbid you to elect anyone except Richard, my clerk, the archdeacon of Poitiers.”
Next to the king the archbishop of Canterbury was the most powerful personage in England. Who would Henry choose?
In early September, Eleanor gave birth to her sixth child at Domfront Castle near the Normandy-Maine border. It was her second daughter by Henry, and the babe had been christened with her own name in an elaborate ceremony performed by the same Italian cardinal who had married young Henry and the French princess, Marguerite.
“I’ve never seen anyone with such a remarkable ability to recover from childbed,” said Henry, holding the baby in his arms, a month after the birth. He had just ridden in from Angers and was still covered with the dust of the roads.
Eleanor stiffened but managed a laugh. “What do you know of such matters? How many women have you seen recover from childbed?” She watched him covertly to see how he would react.
“You know the answer to that.” Henry kissed the top of the baby’s downy head. “This little beauty looks the very image of her mother.”
“You can’t possibly tell at this age.”
He was being evasive; she could always tell when he had something to hide. She had heard rumors of his bastards but knew nothing about them—or their mothers for that matter. Now, for the first time, it occurred to her that Henry might actually have been present either at one of the births or shortly thereafter. The very possibility sent a stab of jealousy through her. If, in fact, this was the case, she did not want to be told any of the details, Eleanor realized, retreating from such unwelcome thoughts.
So long as she did not actually know anything for certain, she could persuade herself there was nothing to know. That had been the trouble with seeing Bellebelle’s name in the Pipe Roll. Eleanor had managed to put the thought of this bawd from her mind—most of the time. Now she wondered if Henry had had a child by her, but could not bring herself to ask.
“I can tell this fortunate child will look like you.” Henry examined the babe’s sleeping face. “A veritable Helen of Troy. Now—if only she has my disposition—”
“Your disposition? What’s wrong with mine, pray?”
Henry grinned at her over the top of the babe’s head. “I would never survive two imperious beauties in my household. Thank Heaven Matilda is of a mild and meek manner—as a girl should be.”
Eleanor, resting on the bed in the small solar at Domfront, could see that Henry was pleased with this new daughter. It never ceased to amaze her how affectionate and indulgent a father he had turned out to be, spoiling and petting all his children—with the exception of Richard, whom he continued to ignore.
Handing the babe over to the wet nurse, Henry walked to the bed, sat down, and took Eleanor in his arms.
“You grow more beautiful each year, I swear you do,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “Do you practice some secret spell or other witchcraft to still look so young and desirable?” His hands curved round the outline of her breasts. “You certainly continue to bewitch me.”
“Flatterer.” She patted her stomach muscles, still loose and weak from the birth. “This is hardly young and desirable. It will take weeks of riding and hawking to harden.”
“Then you won’t mind returning to England when you’re fully recovered? I’ve lots or riding for you to do there.”
“England again? Not without you. I absolutely refuse. Send your beloved Thomas.”
“I’ve other plans for my beloved Thomas.” Henry gave her light little kisses all over her face and neck. “I need you in England.”
“What plans?”
Henry said nothing but continued to fondle her breasts. Eleanor felt herself responding to his ardor and, knowing he was attempting to distract her, resolutely removed his hands.
“That won’t cozen me.” She searched his face. “What schemes are you up to? Tell me.”
“God’s eyes, you’re like a bloodhound worrying a bone.” He bit his lip and sat back. “You must not speak of this to anyone, especially to Thomas.”
“I never talk to him unless I must.”
“As you know, since Theobald’s death last April, the See of Canterbury has remained vacant. The pope is pressing me to fill it. He favors Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of Hereford.”
“A good choice I should think. His entire life is a model of rectitude: never imbibes wine or eats meat, and keeps a most austere household.”
Henry nodded his head impatiently. “Not to mention being a great scholar, a distinguished politician, and noted for his high moral standards of behavior. I know all of this.”
He rose and began to pace up and down beside her bed.
Eleanor followed his movements with a puzzled look. “Well? What more could you ask?”
“I’ll tell you what more.” Henry swung around and jabbed a finger at her. “Gilbert Foliot, this prince among ecclesiastics, swore allegiance to my mother when he was ordained, yet broke his vow by later doing homage to Stephen for his temporal possessions. Do you tell me this is not perjury? It is. No matter how valid his excuses.”
“That was a long time ago. He has served you well since, has he not?” Eleanor had long noted that Henry was unrelenting toward anyone who had broken faith with his mother to serve Stephen. It was an obsession with him. Her uncle’s words flashed briefly through her mind.
Henry came to rest beside the bed. “I never forget an injury.”
“I was just thinking that.”
“Then our minds run a similar course.” He paused. “In any case, it is in my mind to appoint”—he paused and took a deep breath—“Thomas Becket.”
Eleanor was mystified. “Appoint him what?”
“Archbishop of Canterbury.”
She could not have been more stunned had he named her. “But he’s your chancellor! You can’t mean that.”
“I always say what I mean. The advantages are—well, they defy number. You know I’ve always followed an aggressive policy in any conflict between Church and sovereign. Thomas has never failed to side with me. To have as archbishop someone who is also chancellor—”
“Ensures you of Church support under all circumstances. I well understand the situation.” Eleanor had such a sense of foreboding that the whole chamber suddenly felt shrouded in a thick gray fog of doom. “Henry, listen to me. In theory, what you propose is every monarch’s dream, but there are problems—”
“The Holy Roman Emperor’s chancellor is also the archbishop of Mainz. From what I hear—and my mother still has contacts in the empire—there are no problems.” Henry sat on the bed.
“This is England, not the empire! Has there ever been a chancellor here who was also archbishop?”
“A first time for everything.”
Eleanor pulled herself up higher against the pillows. “Like crowning young Henry while you still live? You seem set on breaking one precedent after another. Not that I object when there’s need, like trying that case in York, but this …” She threw up her hands.
Henry suddenly dropped his eyes. “I refuse to be strangled by hidebound traditions.”
Eleanor raised her brows. “How many times have I heard you refer to the good old customs of your grandfather? You cannot have it both ways.”
“I don’t see why not. You’ll have to do better than that, Nell.”
“All right. Canterbury does not like Thomas. He was an archdeacon who worked in Theobald’s household, where he was known mainly as a lawyer and diplomat. Now he is your chancellor. By Church standards he is not suitable. Worldly, ambitious, hardly a pious man, these are but a few of the epithets leveled against him by the monks. You will have trouble if you attempt this. I was recently at Canterbury and I know whereof I speak.”
Henry rubbed his chin. “I believe you.” He sighed. “I should have seen Theobald before he died. I should have let Thomas see him. It was not politic.”
“Not politic? Sweet St. Radegonde, it was cruel! You broke that old monk’s heart.”
Henry frowned, and scratched his head. His lips were pursed in a pout, and guilt was writ large on his face, like a small boy who has been caught in the act of misbehaving. She knew the expression well.
“Mea maxima culpa. I can be vicious sometimes. When I want something—or fear it—” He shrugged and rose to his feet. “There’s naught I can do about it now. The monks of Canterbury must make the best of it.”
As usual, his unblinking look at the less favorable aspects of his character disarmed her. Her voice softened. “Henry, I know you believe this to be a shrewd stroke, but if you make Thomas archbishop you will regret it to the end of your days.”
Henry resumed his pacing. “I’m not blind. I’m well aware you have never liked him, nor he you, for that matter. In truth, he has served me, and the realm, very well indeed. Give me one specific reason, a fact not based on your personal bias, and I will listen.”
Eleanor searched frantically for some incident or fact that would move him. “How do you know he shares your views on, say—need for reforms in matters of law? There’s always conflict between the civil and Church courts. You told me yourself that the corruption and greed of many Church officials was widespread. Also he’s not a priest.”
“You’re clutching at straws, Nell. Thomas has been scrupulous in his attempts to win back for the royal courts all that had been lost to the Church courts in Stephen’s reign. As for not being a priest—that’s easily remedied.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
“As your chancellor he has supported the crown. What will he do as archbishop of Canterbury?”
Henry paused in his pacing. “But he’ll be both! It won’t do, Nell. You have no valid reason for disputing my choice. In fact, I thought you would be pleased to have him out of our lives and safely tucked away at Canterbury.” He sat back down on the bed and took her hand. “I will see much less of him. In fact, I will be losing my blood brother and you will have less occasion to be jealous.”
Eleanor flushed. Had her jealousy been so obvious? “Blood brother?”
“Last spring, before Theobald’s death, we were flown with wine and bonded ourselves as blood brothers.” Henry paused, frowning, as if he would say more.
“Was there something else?” Her heart skipped a beat.
“Not really—nothing specific. I do regard him as an elder brother in many ways, a father and mentor even. After all, he was with me from the first day of my reign.”
“Yes, I know. So was I.” Eleanor felt vaguely disquieted but did not know why. Blood brotherhood. She knew very little about such bonds. “Before you make a final decision, please consult your mother.”
The Vespers bell rang and Henry rose. “I never expected to hear you say that, but I intend to. I need not decide at once. Will you attend evensong?”
“I think not. I still feel very weak.”
Eleanor watched him walk toward the door, stopping for a moment to chuck his little daughter under the chin. It would indeed be a relief to have Becket at Canterbury, but she knew with an absolute certainty that to appoint him archbishop would be a fatal error. If only she could have thought of …
Suddenly she remembered her uncle Ralph’s suspicions about Becket’s veiled desire for Henry. Should she tell him? He had reached the door now. She hesitated. Ralph’s opinion was not based on known fact. Nor was her uncle a man Henry held in high regard. He might think that jealousy prompted her, a desire to destroy Becket’s reputation. What should she do? By the time Henry had opened the door and left, the moment had come and gone.
The weeks passed and Eleanor was soon back on her feet, feeling fit and filled with her old energy. Henry had still not finally made up his mind about Becket, and in November she allowed him to persuade her to return to England. Still a prey to unease, Eleanor set sail for Dover, taking baby Eleanor and two nursemaids with her. Henry stood waving on the shore. As his figure grew smaller and smaller, she wondered if the day would come when she would regret her silence concerning Thomas Becket.