At dawn on the fourth day of the full moon Foliot rode to one edge of the forest with a groom whom he left in charge of his horse, and led the groom’s nag through the misty pink light to the spot where at night he met the Lillith. She had woven a sort of bower outside the cave where she sheltered in wet weather. A small fire flickered beneath a pot that she stirred with a stick. She was singing to herself, but she had heard him approach and showed little surprise. For Foliot, to see her by daylight was a shock – she was filthy. His heart rejoiced. Her hair hung to her waist and because her cooking fire made the air hot, her shoulders and breasts were naked. She was younger than twenty. Perhaps less than fifteen. How is this possible? he asked himself. I’ve been coming to her for more than a decade. He knew enough of the forest dialect to converse with her. He pulled from his pocket a ruby ring. ‘This will be yours if you can bring its owner back to consciousness and mental strength.’
He placed the ring in her palm. She closed her eyes for a moment before they flew open. ‘This ring is not his! This ring belongs to … It’s had two owners. The first was murdered. The second …’ She threw it away as if it burnt. Foliot had to search in the undergrowth for it. When he found it she said, ‘You’re trying to trick me. All these years I’ve helped you. Now you’ve come to have me arrested for stealing from … from …’ She crouched, ready to flee.
‘No! Listen! The King’s brother …’
She grinned. Her teeth and tongue were black from eating charcoal. ‘Yes. That ring belongs to the King. The power it has soaked up from his body hurt my palm like a lick of fire.’
‘The King’s brother was wounded in battle. He’s been unconscious five weeks. The King will give you this ring if you bring his brother back.’
‘And if I don’t I’ll be put in irons?’
‘No. My dear …’
Foliot suddenly heard himself addressing a troglodyte as ‘my dear’. He blustered through the rest of the interview.
When she was decently covered they set out. The Lilith carried a sack of what she called ‘necessaries’, and rode the groom’s mount.
From Clifford Castle knights carried Guillaume to that part of the forest closest to it. Henry wanted to ensure that whatever came to pass would happen out of sight. ‘A little further,’ he ordered. His brother’s litter was set down on a small patch of grass, deep inside the trees. As the sun rose higher the light that began to filter past leaves was a deep, soothing green. The King had a basket with bread, a smoked trout, cheese, berries, curd and cider. He set it down beside the litter and dismissed his men, except for one whom he posted just outside the trees. His mission was to direct ‘two people’ to where the King waited.
The visitors found the King walking up and down beside Guillaume. They dismounted. Foliot was astonished when the Lilith approached Henry, who wore only a robe of brown leather, and prostrated herself at his feet. He said nothing. He observed her long matted hair and filthy clothes. The wood warbler fluttered from Guillaume’s chest to perch on her head. Henry raised an eyebrow at Foliot.
The Bishop addressed her. ‘His Highness wishes to know if, to work your cure, he should withdraw.’
She gave a long answer.
‘She says you may stay at a distance outside the circle she’ll draw. As long as you stay beyond it and don’t speak, no harm will be done to her work. Actually, she said “magic”. But what you see may discomfort you, she told me, and therefore she asks that we both depart.’
Henry snapped, ‘Get up.’ When she was standing he stared into her hazel eyes. She held his gaze. ‘Tell her I’m staying. Gilbert, you leave.’
With a sigh of relief the Bishop walked away, leading his groom’s horse.
During the night it had rained a little, softening the ground. The Lilith took a stick and drew a circle in the softened earth around Guillaume. Henry had a thick ram’s skin to sit on. He found a tree trunk to rest against, about two yards from the edge of the circle. The young woman lit a fire. She’d arrived equipped with fire stick, kindling and a bundle of larger pieces of dry wood. Onto her fire she threw handfuls of something. It turned into a pungent blue-green smoke that she wafted across Guillaume’s face. The smoke was so copious it drifted to Henry’s nostrils. He sniffed up its strong, bitter smell, hoping to make out its ingredients, but they were so unfamiliar he couldn’t make sense of them. Within moments he couldn’t make sense of anything. His head fell back against the tree trunk. He struggled to keep alert, but his lids drooped. Through a haze that was neither sleeping nor waking he heard voices; snatches of words he thought he might understand if he weren’t intoxicated. He heard singing. A woman singing. Or was it Guillaume? Or someone else? He couldn’t decide. He felt something brush against his cheek. With enormous effort he opened an eye and saw her wafting smoke directly into his nose.
When he struggled awake the sun was descending, casting a pale orange glow across the piece of sky he could glimpse above the treetops. He’d fallen sideways and one cheek was cold from resting on the earth. He pushed himself upright, brushing dirt and ants from his face. He waited a moment for his eyes to regain focus because he could not believe what he saw. The forest was empty. The only sign of the hag was the outline of the circle she’d drawn in the grass and a dead fire. Guillaume, his litter, the little bird, the basket of food … All vanished.
The King stumbled towards the light at the edge of the trees, his gut writhing in pain. His knight was still there. He rushed to the King. ‘What happened, Sire?’
‘Did my brother come out of the forest before me?’ Henry croaked.
‘Only the Bishop. I’ve stayed here all day. I saw nothing. But I heard voices.’
‘Bolts of lightning bounce off my forehead,’ Henry whispered.
‘Sire, let’s go immediately to the castle.’
The King suddenly bent over and vomited. He turned and ran back into the trees just in time to raise his clothes before his bowels gushed. He returned gingerly to the edge of the greensward. ‘I’m unable to ride.’
‘We’ll walk slowly, Highness. I’ll hold your arm if you permit me. It’s only a hundred yards.’ Their horses ambled behind them. As they came within view of the gatehouse the knight shouted, ‘Help! The King needs help!’
Many hands lowered Henry to a stretcher. After some confusion as to how to do it properly, he was carried inside. He held his hands clasped over his eyes.
Foliot ran out, ashen. ‘What happened! What did you see?’ he demanded of the knight.
‘Sir, I was ordered not to look. But I heard many female voices. They spoke a language I didn’t understand and often they sang.’
‘And then!’
‘And then there was silence. About an hour later the King walked out of the forest and asked if I’d seen his brother.’
Foliot slumped against a wall. ‘They’ve taken him,’ he murmured.
From his litter Henry croaked, ‘Does that mean he’s dead?’
The Bishop turned away.
‘Gilbert,’ the King slurred, ‘I want Guillaume’s body. We vowed to each other we’ll be buried with our papa.’ He looked up at Sir Walter and Margaret Clifford, hovering nervously. ‘You heard that. If I die here, you’re to send my corpse to …’ He didn’t finish the sentence.
Margaret Clifford burst into tears. Rosamund slid between her parents and the other adults. She slipped her hand into the King’s. ‘He’s alive, Henry,’ she whispered. ‘The angel said people who live beneath the earth have come up to the air, as mushrooms do, and are making your brother alive. Also a man—’
Her mother said, ‘Rosamund! Do not dare …’
The King awoke late next morning feeling stronger and healthier than he could remember. ‘Have they found Guillaume yet?’ he shouted at a house churl.
Despite two days’ search of the area where Foliot normally found her, there was no sign of either the hag or Guillaume. Inside the castle Henry summoned Rosamund and sat her on his knee. He had concealed Richard behind a piece of furniture for the youth to observe the child. He wanted another opinion on her, from someone young and also from the marcher lands. ‘You’re to promise me that even if your mother whips you, you’re not to speak about my brother to anyone but the angel. Not even your own brothers and sisters. Do you give your word?’
Rosamund nodded solemnly.
‘There’s a bath servant, a very old man with broken teeth. Do you know him?’
‘I love him! He’s always kind to me.’
‘If the angel tells you something, you may tell that old man. Only him. Off you go now.’
Richard emerged from his hiding place, grinning. ‘She knew I was there all along. As she was leaving she greeted me in Welsh.’
‘Is she trustworthy?’
Richard swallowed. ‘If I were a knight, Your Highness, I’d serve her. I’d do anything she commanded me.’
Henry’s glance was tender with melancholy. ‘When I was not much older than you I loved a girl I married. She was the mother of my son, Little Geoffrey, whom you must have seen in Windsor. I would have died for her without a second thought. Instead she died for me, pregnant with our second son.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Why are you shaking, Richard?’
‘I-I … Sire! I weep for her. For the wife you loved. Your heart is so big. It’s like …’ he opened his arms wide. ‘Mine is … tiny. But it grows when I’m with you. And the poisons in it disperse from the influence of your great heart on my puny one.’
Henry gasped as Rachel, smiling, stood before him. Richard reached out to touch her, but his hand landed on Richard’s shoulder. The youth’s fair skin was turning green.
‘Sire, may I be excused?’ he whispered. He turned to retch into a bowl. Rachel vanished.
‘Go immediately to the infirmary,’ the King mumbled. He was already shaking. As he rushed from the chamber Henry flung himself face down on the bed and howled. Outside, two knights unsheathed swords. One peered cautiously through the open doorway, drew back and shook his head at his companion. Inside the King wept without restraint, flailing his arms on the mattress in an agony of grief. ‘Rachel! Come back to me!’ he gasped. ‘Don’t torture me. Don’t appear then leave me again. I’ll go mad.’ He grasped a pillow, holding it against his face, kissing the stiff object, stroking its white linen cover as if he stroked her face. The knights on duty outside quietly closed the door.
‘Lost his first wife to an assassin,’ the older man whispered. ‘It was during the civil war. People say he went mad with grief. His brother covered up for him. Told lies about where he was to keep the men fighting. It was close run. Without our Henry, the rebellion would have collapsed.’
‘We’d have the maggot Eustace as our King.’
Inside, on the bed, Henry’s misery slowly dispersed. The love that other men enjoy is forbidden to me, he rebuked himself. I accepted that when I took the throne. His hot cheeks felt the cool presence of the Guardian.
Richard had begun vomiting as he ran towards the infirmary. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he demanded of the Dark Lady. ‘I didn’t know you were his wife!’
‘Nothing would have changed,’ she answered calmly.
Richard was blind with tears as he stumbled through the door and collapsed into the arms of a physician. He dragged himself away from the man, bent double, and gushed vomit that flew across the chamber. Then he passed out.
When he regained consciousness Rosamund was seated beside him, holding a warm cloth against his forehead. The physician stood frowning, his expression puzzled.
‘What did you eat?’ he asked.
Richard shook his head, unable to speak.
‘What did you drink?’ the physician persisted.
The youth took a deep breath, wanting to answer, but unable.
‘He ate and drank only what the other servants had at breakfast, didn’t you, Richard? I was there. I saw,’ Rosamund said.
The physician turned to her. ‘My little lady, it’s unhealthy for you to stay here. You may be touched by a deadly illness. You saw his vomit.’
Rosamund leaned towards Richard’s ear to whisper. ‘You vomited a snake. Not like the snake that bit me. A worse one. I saw it. That old man didn’t. He just saw a big vomit.’
Richard found he could speak a little. ‘What happened to it?’ he gasped.
‘It flew away.’
Richard closed his eyes. He slept, and could not be awakened, until the next morning.
Meanwhile in the hall of Clifford Castle, Henry announced he could no longer neglect the needs of the realm. The royal party left for Westminster, the monarch so gloomy he could barely smile as he thanked his hosts. ‘I hope Richard recovers,’ he said. ‘If not, please bury him here. If he does regain health, he’s to ride to Windsor.’ He had already mounted. Rosamund pulled at his boot, holding up her arms. As her mother glared Henry reached down and hoisted her to his saddle. ‘You want to tell me something?’ he asked, expressionless.
She placed her lips against his ear. ‘Your Remembrancer will recover in a few days. He had a deadly viper inside him. It flew out when he vomited.’
The look Henry gave the child would have petrified an adult. ‘A viper? Richard swallowed a deadly viper, you say?’
‘I didn’t say he swallowed it. It lived inside him. Everyone has an animal.’
‘Fantasy,’ he muttered. Everything in this cursed place is fantasy. The child doesn’t know reality from imagination. She’s probably remembering the snake that bit her foot last September.
‘You have a lion inside you,’ Rosamund added.
By now the misery of his longing for Rachel, his fears for Guillaume and the sickly air of secrets and magic that emanated from the child made him so angry he shouted, ‘I do have a lion inside me!’ He grabbed her beneath the armpits and swung her off his horse so she fell, twisting her ankle. She gave a shriek of pain.
‘I hate you!’ she yelled.
Her mother, smiling with satisfaction, dragged Rosamund to her feet.
The Queen, who was enjoying the final month of her confinement in Windsor, set out in a barrel wagon for Oxford, intending to meet her husband halfway. The justiciars, the Chancellor, a body of knights and courtiers left two days later, riding for Woodstock, where Becket had rebuilt the Lion’s hunting lodge. The royal mastiffs bounded beside the court horses, yelping with excitement. As Henry rode out in front of his men Thomas spurred ahead, leaping from his horse to help him dismount, but the dogs knocked him aside. Standing on hind legs, their tongues lavished affection on their master. Becket glared at them. ‘Bad dogs!’ he growled. Their hackles rose and one curled its lip, a canine the length of a ship’s nail flashing in the sun.
‘Good boys,’ the King said. He shoved paws off his shoulders.
Thomas readjusted his expression. ‘Dear Sire, my heart bleeds for you and our beautiful Guillaume.’
Henry muttered, ‘Thanks, Tom. There must be a mountain of work …’ He was unable to muster a smile, even for de Beaumont and de Lucy. He noticed Becket peering past his shoulder, searching in the royal party for a glimpse of Richard. ‘I appreciate you travelling to greet me, but once I’ve looked over the letters you’ve brought I want you to return with my answers to Westminster.’
Becket compressed his lips. ‘I must say, I’m disappointed, Henry. I’ve been an indoor slave since you left for Wales. I thought, at least, you’d invite me hunting for a few days.’
Henry thought, Any excuse to take offence. His stare towards Becket was cold.
‘Your wish is my command,’ the Chancellor muttered.
‘Correct, Thomas. I’ll read these letters in the next few hours. You’ve brought a scribe?’
‘The youth is adequate for simple correspondence. Richard was training him in the finer points of decoration when you so abruptly called him away.’ Thomas pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘I didn’t expect to be left in the lurch like that. Richard was my personal scribe, if you recall. I absolutely relied on him for our important correspondence.’ His brown eyes were open wide with rebuke. ‘And where is he?’ the Chancellor suddenly added. ‘I don’t see him in your retinue.’
‘He fell deathly ill from something in his stomach.’
‘Oh! Don’t tell me …’ Becket’s mood changed from rebuke to anxiety.
‘He’s recovering,’ Henry replied tonelessly. ‘Your chou-chou will regain his health.’
‘My chou-chou,’ the Chancellor whispered, looking down at his feet. He glanced meaningfully at the monarch, but Henry’s attention had left him. The royal hand was raised, beckoning forward the justiciars.
The autumn afternoons were long and golden. Well before twilight the Chancellor and his scribe with ten knights as escort, left Woodstock. ‘Goodbye, Highness. May God keep you and bless you,’ Becket called over his shoulder. Henry was nowhere nearby. You don’t give a fig about me, Thomas thought.
After two days hunting with the justiciars and some of his favourite courtiers, Henry rode south to Oxford where Eleanor, with her maid, ladies and midwives, was installed in the King’s House. The next day while he was out hunting again, she gave birth in less than an hour to a son, a boy as big as any the midwives had seen. He had fair hair and was, his mother recognised immediately, the image of his paternal grandfather. For Eleanor, her son’s resemblance to the man she had loved more than any other, Geoffrey the Handsome, made her eyes into glowing gems. ‘You’ve come back to me,’ she whispered to the child at her breast. She wanted to call him Geoffrey but knew Henry would fly into a rage. Although they had corresponded, they had not properly reconciled since she’d bitten him on the neck.
When news of another heir reached the King, he muttered, ‘The prophecy.’ He abandoned hawks and hounds and galloped to his wife. He strode into her bedchamber, a dozen men behind him.
‘You stink!’ she exclaimed. Henry paid no attention, but the knights and barons withdrew; it was a rule that no man could enter the Queen’s presence with uncombed hair or unwashed face.
‘I never stink,’ Henry announced as he bent to kiss her. ‘Except sometimes of horse.’
‘True,’ she smiled. She uncovered the face of their new son and showed him the size of the boy.
Henry gave a small gasp from the rush of disagreeable memories that overwhelmed him. The enormous baby was his father, reborn. The evening I sired him, Eleanor and I fought. She bit my neck so hard she drew blood. ‘You shall have joy in your third nesting, wife,’ he announced. His tone verged on sarcasm. ‘I hope I do too.’
Besides the ill omen of its conception there was something about this baby he disliked. It seemed to share – or feel – his attitude. After a moment peeping at its father, the baby’s face turned red and it yelled. ‘Sssh, ssh,’ Henry said. It stopped yelling but peeped at him again with what appeared to be hostility. Good God, Henry thought. New born and already he and I dislike each other.
Eleanor said in English, ‘I want to call him Richard.’
The King did not answer.
His men, hastily washed and combed, trooped back to the bedchamber. ‘Richard, Richard, Richard,’ Henry murmured. ‘Richard de Lucy, Richard de Clare, Richard my Remembrancer, now Lord Richard, my son. There are too many Richards. I’ll call him Ric.’
‘Fine,’ she retorted. ‘I’ll call you Hen.’
He pretended to be amused. ‘My brilliant wife, unable to speak a word of English at her coronation, now makes me the butt of her wit. Hen! I, Lady, am The Rooster!’
She realised he was putting on a show of gaiety for the huntsmen who now crowded around to stare at the new heir, some of them sneaking a touch on his limbs, since it was lucky to touch a just-born prince. ‘My sympathy, dear husband, for your brother,’ she said quietly. For the first time in the months since they had seen each other, King and Queen looked into each other’s eyes.
She’s not forgiven Guillaume for his role in the death of her cuckoo, Henry thought. While he was riding east from the marcher lands rumours about the King’s half-brother had flown from pigeon loft to pigeon loft – the Welsh had killed him in battle, he was buried in Clifford Castle, he was buried in a forest. He had gone mad. Demons had taken him.
‘I’ll tell you everything when we’re alone,’ he said. In a corner of the chamber he saw a woman seated, also just delivered, with an infant at her breast. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.
‘The wet nurse, Hodierna, a widow from St Albans. I chose her believing she’d be delivered a few days before me. As things turned out, she gave birth early this morning, also to a son.’
Henry eyed a blue-veined melon on Hodierna’s chest, judging if her freight of milk were sufficient for two large boys.
‘I chose carefully,’ Eleanor added. ‘Her manners are refined.’
Henry scrutinised the woman. He could see she was no farm labourer’s daughter. She held her head high, on a straight neck, her eyes modestly lowered as she nursed her son. ‘When did her husband die?’
‘Months ago.’
‘From what cause?’
‘A horse kicked him.’
‘Who are her people?’
‘All dead,’ Eleanor replied. ‘War victims.’
My arse, he thought. Eleanor’s not a good liar; she’s not as good as I am.
She had been bound the day after she’d given birth. After a week she announced she was fit to travel back to Westminster, where last I kissed my darling Willi, before they poisoned him, she thought. Her eyes were brilliant with tears as she passed her son to the wet nurse. ‘You’ll have everything you ever want, including the love of a prince,’ she said and quickly turned away. Since Willi, I’ve felt no love for my other children. But I could love this boy. His love, however, will be denied to me. The woman he’ll love as his mother will be Hodierna.
The weather was still hot but travelling east the forests were the brilliant reds, oranges and yellows of deep autumn. Around towns there were fields of ripened corn, ready for reaping, and orchards where the limbs of trees drooped beneath their weight of fruit. Elsewhere, the harvest had been gathered and villagers lay at leisure in the midday sun. They leapt up, shouting, at the sight of the King. Henry rode to them, sometimes jumping his horse over bales of hay to question them on the year’s harvest. Sometimes he accepted shy invitations to enter a hovel for a drink of small ale and a piece of bread. But every time he dismounted men and women rushed to him, ignoring his escort guards. They snatched at his hands and clothes, babbling problems, asking favours, making complaints against landlords. ‘The King bore these onslaughts with good humour,’ the chroniclers noted, ‘but afterwards was often exhausted by his subjects’ demands.’ While they pulled and pushed at him like children fighting over a plaything, they also exclaimed their love for him. Despite Henry’s remorse and sorrow about Guillaume and his dislike of his new son, day by day, his spirits brightened. The kingdom was flourishing. He had two heirs for the throne. And he was only twenty-four.
On the morning Henry arrived in Westminster, Richard was standing at the gatehouse, smiling, dressed in a heavy woollen robe of deep blue, more beautiful than ever. Thomas stood beside him, resplendent in a fur cloak that reached to his ankles. ‘Allow me, sir,’ the youth said to Becket. He ran forward, his hands cupped to receive the King’s boot. In very fast Latin he said, ‘Highness, let me speak to you before the Chancellor does.’
‘No problem,’ Henry replied before raising his head to smile at Becket. ‘Tom! What a sight for my tired eyes! I’ve missed you these past three weeks. You’ve cured my Remembrancer, I see.’
Thomas inclined his head, accepting the compliment. ‘He’s in perfect health.’
‘I need to talk to him in private a few minutes. If you’ll all excuse us.’ He tossed the reins to a groom and strode into the palace, Richard and the mastiffs close behind him. They took the stairs two at a time to the royal bedchamber. A fireplace, with a fire crackling in it, warmed the room. Henry nodded, smiling. ‘No smoke. Amazing. Tom’s done it. I didn’t think it possible.’ Maids were still arranging the counterpane and vases of berries and evergreen leaves. ‘Off you go,’ Henry said, whacking a girl on the backside as she ran past. He closed the doors, pulled off his riding boots and flung himself on the bed. ‘You may sit,’ he said. The dogs had thumped themselves to the floor.
‘May I sit beside you?’
Henry nodded.
‘May I hold your hand?’
Henry took hold of Richard’s hands, holding both in one of his. He could feel the scribe’s pulse racing and perspiration forming on his palms. ‘What have you done?’ he asked.
‘Something very wicked, Sire.’
‘Do I need a drink?’
‘I think so.’ There was wine on a side table and two cups. Richard shakily poured a cup for Henry.
‘I think you need one too, scoundrel, before you confess.’
‘I do!’ Richard poured a short measure of wine into the second cup and gulped it down. He took a deep breath, but still was unable to speak.
‘I’ve been riding since dawn. I’m starving hungry. I’m not going to wait until dinner to hear whatever it is.’
‘Sire, I impersonated you.’
‘You. Impersonated. Me?’
‘To the Chancellor. It was after the boar hunt. There were things I did that day I’m too ashamed to mention, but I have to confess to the trick I played that night. You recall the Chancellor was sleeping in a tent because your uncle, the Bishop, would not offer him accommodation in his palace?’
‘I think this confession would be better made in Latin,’ Henry said.
Richard switched from French. ‘I heard the Chancellor beg you to punish him for the death of the young knight. I was angry with him for the way he treated me. Sire, I can mimic voices. I told him you were coming to his tent and wanted him tied face down on the bed, blindfolded. I just said a few words, in your voice, and I …’ He gasped for breath.
‘God’s feet, boy! What did you do?’ Henry raised himself on his elbows to stare into Richard’s face.
‘I whipped him a few times. I’d already rubbed goose grease on my hand and lower arm and shoved it up his arse. He believed it was you, sodomising him.’
Henry fell backwards on the bed cushions. ‘I don’t know whether to laugh or to beat you!’ He began to laugh, rolling from side to side on the bed, tears running from the corners of his eyes. His laughter grew louder, until helpless hilarity shook him from head to feet. It was months since he’d laughed. The mastiffs became so excited they jumped onto the bed, licking his face. ‘The idiot!’ he gasped. ‘I thought he’d gone mad. I had to endure his making eyes at me over the breakfast table, and every moment we were alone …’
‘Sire, I’ve caused a serious embarrassment for you,’ Richard murmured. ‘For that I’m deeply sorry. And ask your amercement.’
Henry was still enthralled by the grotesque image. It took minutes before his fit of amusement passed. He reached over and twisted Richard’s ear. ‘You are, my boy, uniquely dreadful,’ he said. A final gurgle of amusement escaped him. ‘I think that’s what I value in you. There is none other in England as frightful as Richard my Remembrancer. You’re a monster. You know that, don’t you?’
The youth nodded. ‘The problem is, Sire, should I confess to the Chancellor?’
Henry grew serious. ‘I need to ponder that.’ In war it’s advantageous when an enemy mistakenly believes he’s won a victory. But is Thomas my enemy? Eleanor calls him ‘dangerous’. My mother has turned against him. The justiciars will voice no opinion because I’ve raised him to the inner circle. The only person whose view I’d trust lies still as a corpse in Woodstock forest. ‘Until I’ve made a decision, you’re to say nothing. You’re to say if he asks that I called you in here to discuss the Clifford family. You’ve been reporting to me on what happened there after I left.’
‘Thank you, Sire. May I leave?’
As Richard reached the door, followed by both mastiffs, a thought occurred to Henry. ‘Did you really vomit a snake?’ he asked.
The youth stopped and turned back. ‘I don’t know. Rosamund said I did. I was so ill I thought I was dying. But I used a viper to kill people. Sometimes.’
‘And where is it now?’ the King demanded.
Richard paused. The chamber grew tense with the silence. ‘She’s under my bed.’
On quiet paws the mastiffs stationed themselves, one in front, one behind, the youth. Their eyes bulged with threat. ‘Where was it when we travelled through Wales?’
‘In my saddle bag. The weather was so cold she was asleep nearly the whole time.’
‘And why did you take it?’ Henry asked softly.
‘There was nobody to look after her.’
Henry exhaled deeply. ‘It could have escaped and bitten either me or Strongbow. You endangered our lives!’ The dogs’ legs stiffened, ready to seize him.
Richard began to cry. ‘She wouldn’t, Sire. She …’ He could not bring himself to say the viper loved him as much as he loved the monarch.
Henry sensed what he was thinking. A spasm of empathy snatched at his heart. Your genius makes you as lonely as majesty makes me. Nobody knows the loneliness of a king. I relied on Guillaume …
Despite his feeling of affection – even gratitude – for Richard for sharing his icicle of loneliness, Henry knew what he must do. ‘This is an order,’ he said, ‘You’re to kill that thing and bring its corpse to me.’
‘Before or after dinner?’
‘Immediately. Do you know how to kill a snake?’
Richard nodded. His face was red and tears ran down one cheek. The mastiffs relaxed, allowing him to leave the royal bedchamber. After the door closed Henry went to the table and poured himself another cup of wine. Strongbow was right, he thought. Ingrained evil, but he seems to love me. He recalled what Douglas had said and the conundrum of his Remembrancer deepened.
Running back up the stairs soon afterwards Richard was collared by the Chancellor. ‘What are you doing with a dead snake?’ he demanded.
‘I brought it from the forest near Clifford,’ the youth panted. ‘His Highness fears his brother may have been bitten …’
Thomas’s hands flew to protect his face.
In the royal chamber Henry looked from the corpse to the scribe. The dogs walked purposefully towards it, their hackles raised. Richard held it out for them to sniff. They lost interest. It was dead.
‘Neat kill,’ the King remarked.
‘I kissed her goodbye on the top of her head,’ Richard murmured. ‘She accepted …’
‘That’s enough! I’ll let you know my decision about the Chancellor when I’ve made it. Take this thing downstairs and throw it out with the rubbish.’ His face resumed the melancholy it had worn almost constantly since the ambush in Ewloe Forest. What to do about Becket? he asked himself. If he learns he’s been deceived he’ll hate me. To avenge his injured vanity he may have Richard taken down. Murder was not beyond his friend Roger de Pont l’Eveque. As young men at Canterbury he, Thomas and another were in a cult sworn to advance each other’s careers. Tom could make peace with Roger to seek the service of his murderers. Richard is under my protection, but Tom is unaware of that. I can’t tell Eleanor. We hardly speak to each other, except in front of others.
‘God’s feet!’ he shouted. Suddenly a chessboard appeared in his mind. The white Queen was threatened by her black counterpart. Her King lay under threat from a rook. Only a white pawn could save him. He said softly to himself, ‘I’ll not sacrifice Richard. He’s too valuable. Thomas is more expendable now the realm’s finances and taxes are in order.’
At dinner the Chancellor sent a page with a request for a discussion with the King, who would be in his private audience chamber after his post-dinner nap.
Henry remained seated, reading correspondence, as Thomas swept forward, lavishly dressed in a gown of rose-pink velvet, a colour that complimented his complexion. As he prepared to seat himself Henry looked up, as if astonished by an insult. Becket took a step back from the chair.
‘He-he-he …’
‘Henry! Just say ‘Henry’, don’t Huh-Huh-Huh at me. What do you want?’
‘Richard was very ill. Was he bitten by a snake?’
The King was silent.
‘Was it a snake that bit …?’
Henry held up his hand. He fell into a silence broken by long sighs.
‘Oh, dear. I see you’re most unhappy. Is there anything I can do to cheer you up, dear boy?’
After a while Henry said, ‘You’re correct about my state of mind, Tom. But the realm must continue to function, no matter what my feelings. You befriended my mother years ago. I require you now to charm my wife. You should begin by giving her …’ he looked at the eight rings decorating Thomas’s fingers. The Chancellor was amassing wealth at an astonishing rate. One of his rings was an aquamarine Becket had extracted, de Lucy had told the King, from a magnate in exchange for a promise he’d not be taxed for two years. A visiting cardinal had offered a huge sum for it, since aquamarine’s calming energies were known to sharpen the intellect and open the mind to clairvoyance. ‘Bec laughed in the fellow’s face,’ the justiciar added.
‘… that aquamarine,’ Henry said. ‘To congratulate her on my new son.’
‘I’d be delighted!’ Becket’s fingers dithered as he eased it off.
Henry watched. Your hands are your second face, Tom. They tell me you’re aggrieved. He adopted a smile of generosity. ‘Perhaps you could write to her that when you saw it you immediately thought of the colour of her eyes.’
‘Of course, Henry! And so true.’
They smiled at each other. ‘The advantage of speaking the truth, my dear. Flattery bores the Queen. If you speak truthfully, she’ll respect you.’
The Chancellor bowed. ‘I learn from you. Actually …’ He pulled from a pocket of his robe two small parchments, both of the finest vellum. ‘… I came to seek your advice. These are songs from Germany, sent to the Westminster scriptorium. Before he left for the marcher lands I asked Richard to translate them from Latin into English. At least two of them concern your wife.’
In Richard’s fine script Henry read:
If all the world were mine
From the seashore to the Rhine
That price were not too high
To have England’s Queen lie
Close in my arms.
The second said:
The sweet young Queen
Draws the thought of all upon her
As sirens lure the witless mariners
Upon the reef.
‘They’re from Beuern, where they were first sung. My question is this, Henry, would Her Highness find them pleasing?’
‘She loathes declarations of love from courtiers. But love songs sung by unknown young men who’ll never have a chance of catching sight of her … Ask the same question of yourself.’
‘Moi! I’d be mad with delight.’
‘She’ll pretend indifference, but she’ll be gratified. As her husband, I’m not. A king with a beautiful queen, however, must put up with young monks frigging themselves as they think about her. Send the gem via a page and give the songs to her personally. Since the ring is too big for her hand, you should write a note offering to have it made into some other decoration. Tom, this is an order. You’re to ingratiate yourself with my lady.’
Has she upbraided him with rumours about what happened in Hereford? Becket wondered. ‘May I ask why?’
‘We need her advice for an embassy to King Louis next summer. How you contrive to befriend her, I don’t care.’
The Chancellor’s smile was condescending. You’ve toyed with me. I’ll toy with you. He watched the King’s face for signs of impatience. When the regal eyes narrowed he exclaimed, ‘Henry! I have a suggestion. I pondered this, but wanted your approval before mentioning it. Our finances are healthy. More than healthy. My idea is that for the services Her Highness rendered in assisting the justiciars run the kingdom while you were away, she should be awarded a percentage of the taxation. I thought ten per cent, described as the Queen’s Gold.’
Henry frowned. ‘Such a thing has never happened before. It’s not among the customs and traditions I’m sworn to restore.’ Becket could see the King’s mind flicking through advantages and drawbacks. Suddenly Henry flung back his head in laughter. ‘Cunning villein. Eleanor will love you for it!’
‘So I may tell her?’
‘Certainly. But you may not pay it to her. It will accrue, in her name, in my treasury in Winchester.’
‘She’ll feel cheated.’
‘She’ll feel cheated by me, Tom. You can say I approved the Queen’s Gold but ordered you to reserve it.’
Thomas had imagined the scene of his magnanimous gesture to Her Highness, her gasps of delight, her hands clapping with excitement, her sudden respect for him. ‘Why can’t I give it to her?’ he blurted.
Henry smirked. ‘You don’t understand the power of women, do you, Tom?’
‘I’ve never pretended to.’
‘But you play chess?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘The Queen is the critical – one may say, the most dangerous – piece on the board, is she not? The King must keep her under watch at all times.’
As if it were a silk scarf he drew through his hand, the Chancellor’s voice fondled the King’s name. ‘Henry, you deserve your title as the greatest prince in Europe. Can I you kiss you?’
Henry thought again, A falcon, too hungry, becomes vicious. ‘You may. That young house churl is watching us, you realise?’ He remained seated. Thomas stood, walked around the desk. When he straightened his breathing was shallow and there was a gleam of malice in his eye. He had forced his tongue inside Henry’s ear. As he walked out he ostentatiously adjusted the fall of his gown. The house churl opened the door for him and Thomas paused to chuck him under the chin. Just loud enough for Henry to hear the Chancellor whispered, ‘He enjoys that. From me.’
The King’s face was stiff with anger. He pretended to read a document but from the corner of his eye he watched the churl. The young man’s face was red and he was deeply engaged in trying to remove a speck of something from the sleeve of his gown. Henry’s felt his gut writhe with fury. Until my embassy to Louis is over I’m powerless to rein Thomas in. That’s another year of insupportable behaviour.
Eleanor examined the aquamarine and it’s accompanying note. She turned to her maid, Orianne.
‘What do you think, Buttercup? For one of the cats?’
The maid giggled. ‘My Lady! What an insult to the Chancellor if you put it on a cat.’
‘You’re right. It would be more slighting to sew it onto the hood of my white gyrfalcon.’
‘Why do you dislike him so much, Highness?’
‘Have you observed the way he gazes at my husband?’
‘No.’
‘Be more alert. He’s in love with the King.’
‘Everyone at court is in love with the King.’
‘Not the way he is.’
Orianne studied her lap. She’s heard servants’ gossip, Eleanor thought. She tossed the aquamarine to her maid. ‘It will look very pretty beside your golden hair. Take it to my jeweller and have it set to hang around your neck.’
‘The Chancellor will be angry with me. He may—’
‘He may do nothing!’
It was three days before the Queen found time for an audience with Becket, whom she did not invite to sit. She glanced at the German love songs and listened to his proposal that she receive ten per cent of taxes as Queen’s Gold. The interview lasted less than five minutes.
Next day she summoned the Chancellor to call on her again. ‘You may sit,’ she said. She stroked a black cat seated on her lap. Her eyes slid to Orianne, tempting Becket to follow her gaze. He reddened as he saw his jewel around the girl’s neck.
‘How generous, Your Grace. It looks gorgeous on your little maid.’
‘I knew you’d approve. Now, Thomas, what is the King playing at?’
‘Playing, Highness?’
‘Surely the Queen’s Gold was his idea?’
‘Actually, it was mine.’
‘So what are you playing at, Chancellor? I’ve questioned Richard de Lucy. He tells me the King has ordered the Queen’s Gold is to be kept in the Winchester treasury. It’s not my gold at all. Henry’s keeping it.’
‘Please ask His Highness for reasons. I merely follow orders.’
Eleanor made kissing noises to her cat. ‘Did you hear that, Shekmet? He only does what the King tells him to do. How horrid! You don’t let anyone order you around, do you, sweetheart? Nooooh. You’re too proud for that.’ The cat rubbed its sleek head, left ear, then right ear, against the silk of her gown.
I’d love to see you in a coffin. With that beastly animal beside you, Becket thought.
‘Well, Chancellor, you and I have a challenge,’ the Queen continued. ‘Henry wants us to be friends. I suggest we indulge him. What do you think?’
‘I think Your Highness is extremely intelligent.’
‘I am.’ She smiled. ‘But that is not what you think of me at all. You think I’m cunning. “A cunning sow” is the term you use behind my back, is it not?’
Becket grinned. ‘Yes,’ he said.
She blinked, then trilled with laughter. ‘Brazen!’
‘I suppose I am.’ His tone was airy. He continued grinning, his chipped front tooth making his face both raffish and disarmingly vulnerable. It was a blemish that enhanced his allure.
It’s his unexpected outbursts of insolence and hubris in the midst of his usual fawning that have fascinated Henry and all people of fine breeding. We’re unaccustomed to it. Of all the scores – hundreds – of aristocrats who had met Oily Tom, Eleanor was the one who had pinpointed how he aroused at first curiosity, then interest – and if he were lucky, fascination with him.
‘You may think I’m less than your cat,’ Becket added, ‘But I’m my own man.’ A faint smile was still on his lips.
‘Need I remind you that you’re not? You’re my vassal.’
‘I beg pardon, Highness.’ There was no hint of contrition in his voice.
I’ll enjoy fighting this scoundrel, Eleanor thought. ‘Well, Thomas: I think you and I shall get on perfectly. We both know what Henry says he wants of us. I am to advise you on how to delight the people of France for a grand embassy to Louis. Henry talked to me about it months ago. Your job is to organise its financing.’
‘But as we both know, Highness, your husband may have some completely different reason for bringing us together.’
‘Indeed he may. My husband is most unpredictable. It’s part of his genius as King.’ She nodded at Thomas to leave.
As he rose the Chancellor said, ‘Highness, will it be I or Leicester who leads this embassy to Paris?’
Eleanor looked at him quizzically. ‘You, you dolt. The Earl of Leicester is too honourable to entrust with Henry’s schemes against Louis. The King needs someone of your …’ she paused ‘… supple conscience to carry forth his plans.’
‘I take that as a compliment, Highness.’
‘I thought you might.’ She scrutinised him, her head slightly tilted to one side. A man of genuinely bad character, she thought. She said, ‘You’ve climbed a pinnacle of power you never imagined possible; Thomas of London, a financier, but now a member of Henry’s inner sanctum, on a mission to King Louis …’
I’ll ignore her insults, Thomas decided. ‘Are you aware of what I am to request of your former husband?’ His voice was smooth.
‘Whatever your request, Thomas, there’ll be a hidden trick.’
‘You terrify me, Highness.’ He grinned again as if he meant it as a joke.
Eleanor glared. ‘You may leave,’ she said.
Outside her door he had to lean against the wall for a few moments to recover his poise. The female is deadlier than the male, he thought. It had frightened him that for almost a week the monarch had refused him audience. If Henry wanted to know something he sent a note via a page. The wording was terse and lacked greetings. Once Thomas had to ask the page, ‘Who is this from?’ because there was no signature. In chapel Henry turned his face away to avoid giving his Chancellor the Kiss of Peace. But his anger burns itself out, Thomas reasoned. Perhaps I was too daring in front of the house churl, but surely he’ll forgive me. He loves me, although he tries to hide it, especially here, where the Sow has her spies everywhere.
The Bishop of Winchester also had spies. He had left Cluny for his family seat in Blois where he heard news from a priest, who had it from a brother priest, that Guillaume Plantagenet was either dead or so badly injured his fighting days were over. He considered the intelligence, turning its significance over in his mind. It weakens Henry, he decided. He’s lost his one true friend. Therefore the Chancellor’s power may burgeon. And the more it does, the more he’ll diminish the King – not overtly, he’s too clever for that. He’ll undermine royal authority in subtle ways. I knew Becket would be Henry’s Achilles heel. Abruptly a humorous image appeared in the Bishop’s mind. ‘A leg! A whole leg!’ he chortled. ‘Young Henry no longer grows an Achilles heel. He grows an Achilles leg!’
With whom should I share this insight? he wondered. He pulled a sour face when he realised that Gilbert Foliot was the only man of sufficient intellect to appreciate it, then sat down to dictate a letter of great courtesy to King Henry, begging his amercement for leaving the realm in such haste. ‘My mind was overwhelmed with mourning for my brother, but by now the faithful in my see groan at my long absence. I hope, dear nephew and Lord King, you will permit me to return to the care of my flock at Winchester, where the sacred hand of St James has been their only comfort during my absence.’ He ordered the finest vellum and a wrapping of vermillion samite.
‘He’s up to something,’ Becket said when he opened it in the scriptorium and the elegant Latin was translated for him.
‘Of course he is,’ Henry agreed.
Once the affairs of the realm were in place, Henry announced the Christmas Court would be in Wikeford ‘for surely, in that place, I shall have good luck’. Stephen had been captured there after breaking the superstition that evil would befall any monarch who wore his crown in the nearby town on Lincoln. But despite Eleanor’s best efforts, without Guillaume, the Christmas Court lacked the transports of joy his singing could bring to a gathering of hundreds. Nobody would say so in the presence of the King, but Guillaume was the most beautiful man in England, and the realm’s most eligible bachelor, though a bastard. When Henry noticed pigeons arrive at the colombiers he often ran over to the loft himself in case the bird brought news of his brother. They never did. The bath servant wrote that every day men were sent to the forest to search for him, but returned disappointed. The Lady de Clifford, meanwhile, seemed more unhappy than ever and spent much time in prayer. In Wales Prince Owain, it was said, was regathering strength.
But in Wikeford, on Christmas Eve, the blessing of love that marked the season swept through both King and Queen. As the first day’s feast drew towards a time when she could leave, Eleanor said quietly, ‘Perhaps, Henry, you would like to follow me to my chamber?’ He kept his expression neutral but his heart leapt. Minutes after she departed he rose and, with a wave to the hundreds of guests, left too. Becket turned to de Beaumont to ask in genuine surprise, ‘What are they up to?’ The Earl had a coughing fit.
The monarchs lay together that night, as shy as newly weds. But in the evenings and afternoons that followed they began to talk to each other again. The palace whores, who entertained male guests at the beginning of the Christmas Court, were dispatched to their villages to spend time with their own families. Henry gave the milking maids a holiday. ‘My humours are in perfect balance,’ he assured the royal physician, who became anxious about the King’s health if he were not milked at least twice daily in winter. (In spring he needed milking four times a day to retain his strength.)
The royal couple were suddenly alone. Once their initial shyness had passed, both found the unaccustomed intimacy liberating. ‘I’ve been lonely,’ Henry said one night. ‘So have I,’ his wife answered. ‘Our lives, dear husband, are not our own. They belong to other people.’ ‘Even more reason to treasure this time,’ he whispered. She lay smiling up at him as he loomed over her, resting his weight on his elbows as he moved slowly inside her. But he still loves Rachel, as I still love his father, she thought. I wish I’d never had to marry.
Henry thought, If only my soul would surrender to her, but it refuses. It knows she can’t surrender to me. What we feel is a fleeting pleasure spread from our loins.
Both thought, We’re partners who distrust each other.
During the feast on the eve of Epiphany the Chancellor hissed to Richard, ‘Off they go again for another night of fornication! Endless fornication!’
‘Sir, as man and wife, they’re not fornicating,’ Richard replied. ‘Their Highnesses enjoy the blessed union of becoming one flesh.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Becket snapped.
Richard thought. Jealousy is driving you even madder than you already are.
By the end of January Eleanor was pregnant. But she had morning sickness and kept mostly to her own apartment, seeing her husband only at supper where she was, mostly, quiet and once more withdrawn. The milking maids and the royal prostitutes returned and palace life resumed its febrile pace.
In early spring the King had spent an afternoon meditatively, reading treatises by the pagan, Cicero, borrowed from Foliot’s library. He found deep pleasure in De Legibus and De Natura Deorum. At sunset he entered his apartment to refresh himself before the day’s final meal. Douglas was sprawled on the royal bed, his boots still on.
‘I’m going to find your brother, lad,’ he said.
‘He’s alive?’ Henry’s flesh stood up. A turmoil of emotions made him giddy. I’ll have Guillaume back! I won’t be alone anymore. Another thought struck him: Can I trust Douglas? He’d never lie to me, but what if he’s mistaken? ‘Guillaume’s health is renewed?’ he asked.
‘The forest women have cured him.’
‘How long before you’ll have him back to me?’
The Highlander said, ‘That depends.’
‘On?’
‘Lots of things.’
‘Can I tell …?’
‘Tell nobody.’ He took a sip of the water-of-life he carried in a flask that hung from his belt.
‘Give me some!’ Henry said. He grimaced as the liquid burned his throat and burst inside his stomach with licks of fire. His eyes grew bright. He began to chuckle. ‘Guillaume’s alive! My heart gallops with joy. Give me another drink!’
His visitor held out the flask again. Henry took another two swings. He then flung himself on the bed and kissed Douglas’s face.
‘Now you’re pissed.’
‘Yes! I’m pissed,’ Henry whooped. ‘Drunk with joy! Give me some more!’
‘I have to return to the forest to locate him. Do you want to ride with me?’
‘Yes! Now!’ Henry shouted. ‘Tonight.’
‘Lad, you’re too drunk to sit on a horse tonight.’
‘Tomorrow then.’ Henry rolled on top of Douglas. ‘I’m going to kiss you until you beg me to stop!’ he cried aloud. Douglas thought, He won’t be wanting to kiss me when we find Guillaume.
‘My darling Hi-hi – Scotland man!’ Henry roared. He grabbed handfuls of Douglas’s hair so he could kiss his forehead. The mastiffs found it so exciting they jumped on the bed. Guards outside heard barks, yelps and whoops of drunken laughter.
That evening, at supper, Becket entered the royal dining chamber with his arm supporting the Queen’s. Planning the embassy to Louis, they had been together at least once a day. ‘What’s this?’ Henry shouted. ‘You’re plotting against me with my wife!’ His sword flashed from its scabbard into his hand. His feet moved into the fighting position, knees flexed. Becket jumped in fright. Eleanor drew herself erect and stood still.
‘Ha-ha-ha!’ Henry yelled. ‘Watch it, Bec. I can run you through in a blink.’
‘W-w-what have I done?’ the Chancellor gasped.
‘You’re trying to seduce the Queen! You want her to spy on me!’
The mastiffs began walking on stiff legs towards Becket. Eleanor hissed to the quaking figure beside her, ‘He’s drunk, Chancellor. Stay calm.’ She lifted her chin and smiled. ‘Henry, my darling, put your sword away and give me a kiss.’
‘Oooh, what a wife!’ he shouted. ‘You know I’m madly in love with you?’ It took him several attempts to resheath his sword before announcing, ‘I’m off again in the morning. Sweet Eleanor, sweetest Eleanor, you’re to be Regent once more. Tom, work diligently.’
‘May we ask where you’re going, Henry?’ the Queen replied.
‘Ha-ha! It’s a s-s-sweekeret.’
‘All right, a secret. But, as Regent, how shall I contact you?’
The King fell into a fit of hilarity. ‘Dunno. No idea. I’ll contact you. How’s that?’
‘Perfectly acceptable,’ she replied.
He grabbed her headdress, pulling it off as he kissed her. He flung the triangle of embroidered red velvet to the floor and with a deft kick made it fly across the room. ‘You want me again tonight, don’t you?’ he whispered loudly enough for the half dozen people in the hall to hear each word.
Becket thought, I’m going to throw up.
By now he had resigned himself to the King’s fickleness. ‘Used and abused’, he told himself. He thought again of the story about the game ‘Use the Loser’. I was the loser, he thought bitterly. I lost his destrier. He blamed me for the death of the knight. What he did in Hereford was not love, it was punishment. But his thoughts veered wildly to another angle. That’s ridiculous! It’s untrue. He was mad for me that night. And the night after. He declared his love for me. He admitted how the moment he first met me, as a boy of nine, he’d wanted me to kiss him. I showed him some monkeys copulating. He said, with such sweet shyness, ‘The male’s is so small. May I see yours, sir?’ He gasped when I showed him. ‘Like a stallion’s, sir!’ he exclaimed. We had to wait for each other fifteen years – but it was worth it. In Hereford we wrestled together in animal depths I haven’t experienced since I was a green youth. And he was the loser. I conquered him. He’s too proud to admit it, the beast.
Lounging on the bed in the royal apartments, Douglas ate a haunch of mutton with his fingers. His soul felt heavy as he reflected, I’ve been the lad’s protector since he was a sapling; I led him through the ordeal to become a royal knight. I couldn’t instruct him verbally because we shared no common language. Those days and nights when I didn’t know if he’d survive or if I were skilful enough to draw him through it lodge in the heart forever. It’s welded us together like clansmen fighting shoulder to shoulder, each ready to give his life for the other. But with the assistance of my guides I turned that foreign youth into a man. A man of royal courage. A man able to enter the world of midnight.
How will I prepare him for the change in Guillaume?