The Queen’s sister, Petronilla, wrote to her.
England’s Chancellor travelled in the style of a great prince. Magnates, counts and barons galloped from their estates to see his cavalcade while the lower ranks speak of nothing else. Great and terrible hounds capable of overpowering a bear or a lion guarded his wagons and long-tailed monkeys juggled while standing on the backs of horses. He travelled to Paris by the way of Meulan. But for your judicious advice, Sister, he would have come to grief within a day of arriving in the French Vexin. As you foresaw, Louis forbade merchants to sell provisions to the English. But your warning of Louis’ meanness of spirit when he feels bested allowed the Chancellor to send ahead servants in disguise to the markets of Lagny, Corbeil, Pontoise and St Denis. There they bought bread, meat, fish, wine and other victuals in great quantity. Thomas lodged with the Templars, who are still ensconced north-east of Paris. On arrival at their headquarters the Chancellor learned his servants had acquired three days’ rations for one thousand men, making his table both ample and sumptuous. At one meal he ate a dish of lampreys for which they had paid 100 shillings, that for local people would cost no more than half a shilling. The whole Ile de France speaks of this marvel of prodigality. Louis, it’s said, was greatly amused. ‘It gratifies me that England’s gold is wasted on French eels,’ he said. ‘We wasted enough of our gold on them during their squabbles for power.’ The King set himself to outshine, in largesse, your Chancellor, holding a banquet of great magnificence, at which he himself ate only a single bean, obliging his guest to do likewise. (I heard this from our kitchen boy.) A few days later the Chancellor held a reception for the English scholars still residing in Paris, their masters and their creditors, at which he paid off debts and urged both pupils and teachers to return to England, as your husband has commanded they must. Upon the scholars and schoolmasters, upon nobles, barons, knights and the better citizenry, he bestowed extravagant gifts: gold and silver plates, robes of silk and velvet, cloaks and furs, even palfreys and the huge horses that had drawn his wagons. The Chancellor’s monkeys tossed to villeins and urchins the objects they had juggled to take home as keepsakes, so from top to bottom, people feel England has shown them friendship and generosity. The purpose of this visit is unknown, although gossip says your husband wishes to secure confirmation of his claim to be Seneschal of France. No doubt, Dear Sister, you know the true reason for an embassy that is, and will remain for years, the talk of the whole country. Meanwhile, I send my condolences on the death of your brother-in-law, Count of Nantes. I know your husband was not close to his brother, Geoffrey, and fought a war against him not long ago; his passing may not cause either of you much grief.
Among those who crossed the Channel to the Ile de France to observe the English embassy was Bishop Henry Blois, accompanied by two promising acolytes. The young men gawped at the fabulous display for which the prelate himself could not resist exclamations of admiration.
‘Well, well,’ he said when they turned their horses for the journey home. ‘How would holy scripture advise us about what we have just witnessed?’
‘Lord Bishop,’ the younger man replied in a tentative voice, ‘would it be from the Book of Proverbs?’
His Grace smiled encouragement.
‘That pride goeth before a fall?’
Winchester patted his cheek. ‘I’ll have an excellent wine for you this evening.’
Henry and Eleanor rode to Dover to celebrate the Chancellor’s return. Between them they already knew almost everything that had transpired during the embassy, since Eleanor had spies in Paris and Henry had them in Becket’s retinue. Of most interest to the Queen was the fact that Becket had succeeded, as she put it, ‘in charming all the rings off Louis’ fingers’. The royal children would officially be affianced as soon as the Kings met face to face. As dowry, Margaret would have the Norman Vexin and its castles; as an act of good faith Louis would hand his infant daughter to Henry for safe-keeping in England until the marriage took place when the children reached an appropriate age. If the Crown Prince were to die before the wedding, Princess Margaret’s engagement would be transferred to the younger brother of her fiancé. Henry II of England would be officially declared Seneschal of France. But all this was to remain secret until the monarchs embraced.
On one of the hottest days of summer, when the fire of the sun crashed down from a cloudless blue sky and the towering chalk cliffs scorched the eye, Henry and Eleanor waited for Becket to step ashore at Dover. He was attired in the white gown worn by Templars. ‘There’s a message in that,’ Henry muttered to the Queen.
‘Indeed. Now Bernard is dead they’re so humble in their plain white attire they know they are superior to all other humans.’
‘As if he’s announcing his own might by genuflecting,’ Henry rumbled.
Henry and his stallion cantered across the glinting, shingled beach, small rocks flying from the horse’s hooves. As his Chancellor walked unsteadily towards him, sinking to his ankles in the shingles, the King dismounted.
‘Have I earned a kiss?’ Thomas asked.
The King kissed his cheek. ‘A thousand more later.’
The Chancellor dared a glance towards the Queen. She was far advanced in pregnancy, but rode, with two knights close beside her, holding a shade cloth over her head. The three approached at a leisurely amble.
‘Tonight?’
‘If possible.’
Eleanor arrived beside them. ‘Tom, I congratulate you. I hear Louis was melted wax in your fingers.’
‘Your Grace flatters me.’
‘When does it suit him for us to meet?’ Henry asked.
Becket held out a parcel wrapped in pale green samite embossed with fleur de lis and secured with thick gold ribbon. Henry slashed the ribbon in two. He cracked the letter’s seal and read through Louis’ flowery expressions of amity, grinning to himself.
‘As soon as possible,’ he announced. ‘He spends a final few weeks with his daughter, then she’s ours.’ He continued to read. ‘This is even better. As Seneschal of France, now my brother is dead and my overweening vassal, Conan, has seized his lands in rebellion against my will, I may enter the province and do as I wish.’
‘Which is?’ Becket asked.
‘Dear Tom, the city of Nantes controls the mouth of the River Loire. My wife and I have long desired to have it under our control. Thanks to your brilliant diplomacy, soon we shall. I’ll put my foot on Conan’s neck. Of course, before such action I’ll have an amicable discussion with Louis about him. Louis loves the Bretons as tenderly as I love the Welsh.’
‘I’m constantly amazed,’ the Chancellor remarked. ‘I imagine I’m doing one thing and discover I’m doing something quite different.’
‘Tom-tom, I keep telling you, our skills are different.’
‘But complementary,’ Eleanor added.
‘Highness, such words of praise from you, I can scarcely believe my ears.’
‘The man who’s achieved such a brilliant coup through our embassy to Paris earns my admiration.’
Becket was speechless. Then he thought, The cunning sow wants something. He bowed.
The justiciars and a band of knights who had accompanied the monarchs were now all dismounted, squinting against light that bounced off the water and the shingles of the beach. Even the sea seemed to give off heat. The tide was neaping and water sloshed just an inch or two over the shingles before retreating and slipping back to the same wet mark it had left. ‘I must go,’ Eleanor murmured. ‘Henry, get out of the sun. I can see your cheeks sprouting freckles already.’ She turned her palfrey and headed towards the shade at the base of the cliffs. There litter-bearers waited to lift the Queen from her horse. Down at the water’s edge the King and his justiciars were in intense conversation, in Latin. Richard was taking brief notes. Henry became so engrossed with the discussion he remounted and, his men beside him, trotted off towards the base of the cliff.
Ride off and leave me! I return in triumph and I’m treated like a worm. Shingles burnt the soles of Becket’s silk shoes.
‘Horse!’ he shouted. ‘Bring me a horse!’ A young knight obliged with his own steed. He cupped his hands for the Chancellor to mount. Now accustomed to behaving like a prince, Thomas pulled a cornelian from his forefinger and handed it to the knight.
‘No need, sir.’
‘Take it, young man,’ Becket replied. ‘You’ve earned my gratitude.’ Unlike the royal beast, and his little snake. Richard had greeted him with the merest inclination of his head. He’d grown several inches since Thomas had last seen him and his beauty was now spectacular. Princely, he thought. God-like. A spasm as sharp as cramp hit him with longing for the virgin whose timid kisses he had spent months eliciting. He glanced from Richard to the King who just then turned in his saddle to beckon his Remembrancer to ride abreast with the justiciars. He could feel an invisible cord binding them. My Richard. I taught him, I brought him up. Henry’s stolen him from me.
A steep path led to level ground above the chalk cliffs, hard going for the Queen’s litter bearers. From the top of the cliff a short ride led to a ruined castle. The Queen insisted she could manage it more comfortably on horseback. Within two hours all those who had met on the beach at Dover had assembled. Inside cool stone walls, food and drink was laid out for them. ‘This will be my biggest and strongest castle in England,’ Henry announced as he strolled about, examining the rebuilding he had ordered. ‘I want Dover Castle to last a thousand years.’ He rounded on the master mason who walked slightly behind him. ‘You get that? A thousand years!’ The man inclined his head with grave dignity.
There was barely room for twenty people to eat in a corridor that protected them from the heat. The Queen withdrew to a chapel for the Virgin where she reclined on her litter and allowed Orianne to feed her pieces of fruit. Becket was among the last to take his seat at the trestle boards. ‘Shove up,’ Henry ordered, giving de Lucy a push. He patted the bench beside his bottom for the Chancellor to take a seat. ‘Tom, we’ve discussed it and I’ve decided to leave next week. I’ll subdue Brittany and claim my little princess. Do you want to accompany me?’
‘Dear liege, I fear a mountain of work in the scriptorium will bury me. With regret, I decline.’
Richard de Lucy whispered to de Beaumont in Latin, ‘He knows Louis will have eyes only for Henry.’
‘We’ll stay in Canterbury tonight,’ the King announced. ‘Thibult is ailing. He would appreciate a visit from you, Tom.’
Becket’s expression became mournful. ‘Much as I’d love to see our dear Archbishop, I can’t delay my return to Westminster.’ While he was in France Theobald had sent him plaintive letters complaining of his health, asking Thomas to visit him as soon as he could.
The King looked put out. ‘Just one night with your old mentor?’
The Chancellor thought, I’ll have no chance to be alone with Henry if I stay in Canterbury. ‘I know, I know. I’ll write a note to him after we’ve dined and beg you, liege, to give him kisses and hold his hand as I would, if I could.’
Robert de Beaumont muttered to de Lucy, ‘He brushes away the man who launched him to greatness.’
‘What more does one expect from an opportunist?’ his colleague replied.
The King asked Becket, ‘Where will you lodge?’
‘I have a small house in Kent.’
‘So you do,’ Henry murmured. ‘I gave it to you. I’ve forgotten why.’ Silence fell along the board.
Suddenly the King clapped his hands. ‘Bring him out,’ he called. A nurse entered, holding by the hand a pink and white golden-haired child whose features were still soft and unformed. ‘But I’ve not forgotten my promise, Tom,’ he added. ‘Come here, son.’
The Crown Prince walked nervously towards his father, who lifted him up and sat him in his lap. The little boy’s eyes swivelled, panic-stricken, searching for the presence of his nurse.
‘Hey!’ Henry said. ‘My boy, we’ve got a bride for you. Stop looking for your nurse. Look at me.’ He had to repeat the order. ‘Henry, look at your papa. I’ve secured you a beautiful French princess to marry.’ The child seemed on the point of bursting into tears. His father jigged his knee, holding him steady. ‘This is riding a horse.’ He jigged more vigorously. The child’s blue eyes glazed and a howl of terror escaped him. ‘God’s teeth!’ Henry muttered, ‘Look what happens when you leave a boy in a nursery, surrounded with women all day.’ He turned to the company. ‘In recognition of the brilliant success of our Chancellor’s embassy, my wife and I have decided he’ll be foster-father to the Crown Prince.’ Henry noted that de Beaumont’s face did not move. He’ll get over it, he thought.
The little boy held up his arms for his nurse to take him away from the strange and terrible man, but in an instant he’d been lifted and deposited in the lap of another strange man who did not jolt him up and down but pulled his head against his chest and stroked it.
‘There, there,’ Becket crooned. With his free arm he reached across the trestle to break off a piece of honey cake. ‘Here’s cake for Your Highness,’ he whispered, as if he and the child shared a secret none of the others were to know.
The small, hot face stopped crying and looked timidly up to limpid dark eyes. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.
‘Ha!’ Henry grinned. ‘You’ve won his heart already, Tom.’
He struggles to hide his embarrassment, Becket thought. ‘This is a great honour, Henry,’ he replied smoothly. ‘I’ll ensure that in my household I’ll raise you a prince whose charm and elegance will be without peer in Europe.’
Henry grunted. ‘As long as he learns to fight. The world’s first king was a warrior. You’ll need to hire a sword-master.’
‘The best.’
‘Well, that’s me!’
The company laughed and clapped. From the Chancellor’s lap, the prince looked around at the adults, his rosy cheeks bunched in a smile.
At the end of the meal de Lucy said to de Beaumont, ‘A terrible blunder, Robert.’
‘I think he realises it. Or he soon will.’
That night in Canterbury, Henry spent an hour with Theobald, whose hair had become wispy. ‘I’ve been tonsured by God,’ he said, rubbing his bald pate. He had already read the letter Becket had written him, hand-delivered by the King.
‘Tibult, I assure you he wanted to come to you, but I’ve loaded him like a packhorse and, as of today, he has the additional burden of the role of foster-father to my son.’
‘I was Tom’s father,’ the old priest said wistfully.
‘You still are. You are!’
‘I’m grateful to you,’ Theobald replied. His voice barely rose above a whisper. ‘Dying is a strange process. It’s like a tide that comes and goes.’
‘You’ve got years left in you.’
‘Three or four. The Saviour is merciful in allowing me so much time to prepare.’ He sighed. ‘But I do grow impatient. I long to meet Him, face to face.’
Henry knelt by his narrow bed and laid his head against Theobald’s shoulder. He could feel the Guardian hovering behind him, and without knowing why, began to weep. ‘What will I do without you?’ he mumbled. ‘We’ve had our disagreements, but we’ve worked harmoniously. We’ve stabilised the realm. We’ve refloated the wrecked ship and almost rebuilt her.’
The Archbishop fell into a long silence before his voice quavered into use. ‘Dear Henry, I had a dream, I think it was a dream. Perhaps it was a vision. I dreamed, I envisioned, that in my place you appointed Thomas.’
The King sat back on his heels. ‘Thibult! That was a dream.’ He laughed. ‘Thomas!’ He crossed himself. ‘Thomas of London, Archbishop of Canterbury!’ He continued to smile until, suddenly, his hair stood up and an excruciating pain ran from the top of his head to his bent knees.
‘Are you all right, dear boy?’ the cleric asked.
‘I had too much sun on Dover beach. I need to lie down.’
Henry arrived in Paris with a small retinue, declining lavish hospitality that was offered en route. People in the streets stared at the red and gold standard of lions and the King on a magnificent black horse that rode behind it. He wore his simplest crown, a golden circlet just a few inches high with a sapphire at its centre and some smaller sapphires in the gold that wrapped his head. Even uncrowned, his identity was obvious from the elegance with which he rode, his amiable demeanour and military bearing. ‘He’s shown his wealth, now he shows his modesty,’ they told each other. When Henry reached the palace Louis ordered the English royal standard to fly beside the Oriflamme. The city stopped to point and stare. At the palace gates an announcement was made, then rung from every church in the Ile de France – the royal children of France and England were affianced. A chronicler recorded: ‘The people of Paris danced in the street with joy.’
While outside her subjects danced, inside Constance of Castile, the eighteen-year-old Queen of France, wept as she bid goodbye forever to her daughter. Henry kissed her trembling white hand. ‘I’ll raise her with more tenderness than if she were of my own heart’s blood.’ After a farewell banquet he invited Louis for a tour of Normandy to hunt, visit its shrines, abbeys and cathedrals, ‘and if you’ll indulge me, brother, to call on my mother.’ Louis readily agreed. ‘She and I have been at odds for months, but she’s just lost her favourite son to fever and I wish to reconcile with her.’
The Empress sallied forth in mourning robes, her only jewels the pearls she had flung at Henry at their last meeting. Black lace from Andaluse covered her silvering light brown hair. From head to toe she was a more formidable woman than any Louis had met before. A thought amused him. Eleanor must hate her.
‘Empress, my condolences on your sad loss,’ Louis said. He accepted the chair she indicated.
‘Sire, life is cruel for mothers.’ Matilda looked him straight in the eye. She knew he had just given away his infant daughter and that his wife was distraught. ‘The son I nurtured most carefully ignores me. The son I loved best, my second, dead at the age of twenty-four. The grandchild I adore has been taken from my care to be reared in the household of an English ruffian.’ From the corner of her eye she watched Henry’s face redden. Matilda gave the King of France a radiant smile. ‘But I don’t believe in complaining. England’s Chancellor found favour with you, Sire?’
‘Indeed, Empress. A man utterly amusing and delightful. His glorious cavalcade excited my subjects to heights of rapture, dancing and singing as if they cavorted with angels.’
‘Uncanny, is he not? So talented, so original, so stylish, so intelligent.’ For the first time she turned to acknowledge the presence of her son. ‘What will you do with him now, Henry? Now he’s made England prosperous again.’
‘What would you suggest, Mother?’
‘Make him an Earl. Somewhere far in the north from where it’s impossible to travel eight months of the year.’ She turned back to Louis. ‘Not that my son listens to a word of advice from me.’
When they took leave Louis remarked, ‘Now I’ve met the Empress I begin to understand you better, dear brother.’
His expression was both curious and pitying, Henry noted. ‘She trained me from birth that one must act. One must perform. One must live both cautiously and dangerously. Life is a war and one lives under the ever-present shadow of death. From the day I was born I had to fight her. My childhood was hard, but she empowered me.’
‘What was her point about the Chancellor?’ Louis asked. He seemed genuinely puzzled.
‘She considers he’s become too powerful.’
‘She wants you to banish him?’
‘The English have a phrase, “to kick upstairs”.’
It sounded odd in French, suggesting a kick in the backside. Henry translated it into Latin. Louis laughed and laughed. ‘Exactly how I rid the palace of tiresome courtiers! I arrange for them to be bishops in some distant see. I like this “keek ubstez”.’
They rode as far as the seashore on the edge of Brittany. Henry called his knights and Richard to assemble. Louis had glanced many times at Richard during their travels. ‘The English youth are beautiful, are they not?’ he remarked. ‘That young man, your Remembrancer, reminds me of someone.’ He shrugged and gazed off into the distance, not wanting to reveal in whose company he had encountered the little girl who could be this youth’s twin sister. Eustace was a name neither he nor the King of England ever uttered to each other.
Henry had sent on ahead two knights and their squires to prepare for the Kings’ arrival. ‘Brother, now I’ll show you a real marvel.’ He turned to his companions. ‘The rest of you are to stay here. King Louis and I travel alone.’
For both men the very idea of freeing themselves, even for a few hours, from eyes that constantly watched them was an adventure.
‘We, the Kings, raise a rebellion!’ Louis shouted in Latin. ‘We escape our courtiers!’
But they delayed a little too long and the tide was rising fast. Side by side they galloped through a rush of sea to the island of Mont St Michel, their stallions wet to their bellies, their boots and cloaks soaked, both men shouting with excitement.
‘I’ll save you!’
‘No, I’ll save you!’ Henry flashed an urgent message to Louis’ steed – faster! The French monarch dashed ahead of him and was first to scramble onto dry land.
‘I out ran the greatest horseman of the century! The Saviour is merciful to me!’ Louis dismounted to kiss the earth.
He later confided to selected members of his court that the three days they spent together in the island’s monastery ‘were among the most enjoyable and memorable of my life. There is a serenity on that island that calms the mind and uplifts the soul. We talked of philosophy and government, we gazed together at the ever-changing sea, we engaged in the quiet meal times of the monks and in their times of prayer, we spoke of our grandchildren, united in one mighty family. At night we lay side by side and clasped hands before we fell asleep’.
On their third night Henry did not squeeze Louis’ hand, the signal he was about to sleep. Candles on either side of the sleeping platform were still alight, encasing them in a gold cocoon. From outside they heard the roar of waves. Henry flicked his hand at a monk to withdraw. When the door closed he turned on his side to face Louis. ‘I want to say something I can tell nobody but a brother King,’ he said. ‘There are times when I don’t feel mighty, but small and vulnerable. And sad.’ Sealed together in the cocoon, his companion’s gentle eyes encouraged him. ‘When I was seven I was playing in the countryside outside our château in Anjou with my half-brother, Guillaume. We found a cave and a litter of wolf cubs. The she-wolf was off hunting. I took the smallest cub and we ran away. We were almost home when the wolf came after me. I released her cub, but she was insane with rage. Her maw was bloody from a kill and she was determined I would be next. My brother was only nine. All he had to defend us both was a sharpened stick. But with that stick he fought her. He beat her head, he rammed it into her belly. I hid behind a tree, pissing in fear. Her cub yelped and whined. She gave up her attack on Guillaume. She snatched the whelp by its scruff and ran off.’ Louis remained silent. Henry’s breath came in gasps. ‘Through recklessness I’ve ruined Guillaume’s life. He’s blind in one eye. All his hair has fallen out. He looks like a baby, but a hundred years old. He used to be so beautiful no woman could resist him. Now he’s incompetent. You’re the only person I’ve told this to.’
Louis’ arms enfolded him. ‘Bless you for confiding in me,’ he murmured. ‘I too am often small and vulnerable. I’ve had two wives, but the Almighty will not grant me the simple gift He gives my poorest subjects – a son. I pray day and night to know what it is I’ve done to displease Him.’ They held each other, chest to chest, but feeling disembodied, netted in an ecstasy of service to their true selves.
At length Henry squeezed Louis’ hand. To speak again would violate what they had shared.
A few days later, at the Abbey of Bec, the King of France was heard to remark that there was no one he esteemed so highly as the King of England. The official chronicler commented with the acerbic economy of expression for which he was much admired, ‘Wonders never cease’.
By Michaelmas, having summoned knight duty from his Normans, Henry had defeated the rebellious Breton warlord, Conan, who ceded Nantes to the King of England and on his knees offered submission. ‘Arise, Duke of Brittany,’ Henry said. He wrote to Eleanor to congratulate her on the birth of another big, healthy boy. He could not resist adding, ‘With Conan’s surrender I have recovered all the territories and rights of lordship that my grandfather held. My stolen inheritance is fully restored.’
And he’s only twenty-five, Eleanor thought as she read the letter, smiling to herself. She wrote to Petronilla.
Dear Sister,
I’m thirty-six years old. I was twenty when my first husband tried to win back our territory of Toulouse, but failed. Before I turn forty I’m determined that my second husband will recover that county for the House of Aquitaine. He has restored his own inheritance from his grandfather. Now I’ll work on him to restore ours. Please send me any information you hear that may be of use in this honourable quest.
Her sister wrote back quickly.
Since Louis’ miserable failure of sixteen years ago, a great complication has taken place regarding Toulouse. You know how fond he is of his sister, Constance. It’s said he married Constance of Castile because she shared his sister’s name. When his sibling, Constance, was widowed by the death of Prince Eustace, Louis made another well meant but horrible marriage for her. He married the poor woman to Count Raymond of Toulouse. All but Louis know it’s an unhappy union, despite producing heirs. Having no sons himself, the King is inordinately solicitous for his nephew, Constance’s son by Raymond, also called Raymond. Courtiers speculate that if Louis continues to fail to sire an heir for France he will adopt this nephew. Such an action would destroy all your carefully nurtured plans for the future of your grandchildren. It would destroy Henry’s vision of the Houses of Capet and Plantagenet united in a grand alliance. No Aquitaine blood, no Plantagenet blood would hold the throne of France. It would belong to young Raymond of Toulouse. Sister, your task is a difficult one. It will depend upon how willing Henry and Louis are to put at risk the friendship and trust they’ve formed by the engagement of your Crown Prince and Princess Margaret. My dear, Louis is a different man from the one you married and divorced. His heart and eyes are still soft. But he’s more subtle. He has learned the arts of ruling and deceit. I fear your Henry has trusted him too eagerly and optimistically because he knows himself a great warrior and that Louis is feeble in battle. Although your husband is unusually wise for his years, you and I are aware his Viking blood can carry him away.
Petronilla sat looking at what she had written. Henry was not reckless, she knew. ‘You are, dear sister,’ she said aloud. ‘You still want revenge on Louis and the French court. You want Henry on the throne of France where not he, but you, will be the real monarch. And this is your first step towards that goal.’
Petronilla burned the letter and wrote a second one.
What you propose, dear Eleanor, is fraught with political danger. Louis is protective of his sister, the Countess of Toulouse, and may hold the ties of blood more highly than his newly formed amity with your husband. Nobody doubts the King of England has the skill and prowess in warfare to take Toulouse. But such a victory may be at the cost of his longer term and larger plans for friendship and bonds of marriage between England and France. From three different sources I’ve heard the Paris court turned yellow with spite when Louis returned from his trip to Normandy singing the praises of your husband. ‘The Anjevin fox has bitten our King,’ they say.
Eleanor read the letter twice. Autumn was well advanced and the air was chill. ‘My sister, Petronilla, is an unfortunate woman,’ she remarked to Orianne. ‘She is of huge stature and men don’t like her. Their opinion has sapped her self-confidence.’ And daring, she thought. She handed the vellum to her maid. ‘Throw this into the fire, Buttercup.’
Because Henry was away during the birth and first weeks of life of her latest son, the Queen decided she would no longer bow to his disapproval of calling any boy of theirs Geoffrey. She had wanted the prince known as Richard to be Geoffrey, but because Henry was so downhearted and angry after the disaster in Wales, she had not forced the issue. While her husband was touring with Louis, she announced to the court the new prince was to be christened Geoffrey, mentally adding each time his name was spoken, after the man I adored. Among the servants there was tittering, for many of them took victuals and garments to the household of Ranulf du Broc, where the King’s first son, Geoffrey, now lived. Unknown to the Queen, he was often smuggled into whatever palace the King occupied and slept the night in his father’s bed. He was already seven years old, he rode well, he had an accurate eye with an arrow, while his sword master reported him agile, graceful and strong. But most notable was the boy’s ability with languages. He learned Latin quickly and had asked to be instructed in Greek.
‘We’ll call them Geoffrey I and Geoffrey II,’ the kitchen maids agreed, but a house churl objected that their names should be ‘Geoffrey The Bastard’ and ‘Lord Geoffrey’. Unwillingly his view was accepted. ‘His Highness is wrathful if anyone calls his son a bastard,’ the women warned.
‘But that’s what he is,’ the churl persisted.
In the weeks after the King returned from his travels with Louis there was no time for him to have more than business meetings with the Chancellor. He was obliged to hold audience with many English nobles, lay and clerical, before he and his household crossed the Channel again. The Christmas Court was to be held that year in Cherbourg, where Henry had refurbished a small castle on the steep hillside that overlooked the bay below. In sunny weather its sapphire water was bright with fishing smacks and larger trading ships. During winter gales its harbour protected them. He invited the Chancellor ‘and our son’ to join the court for what would be a modest celebration. ‘We’ve both had enough magnificence this year,’ he said.
Becket slapped a hand against his heart. ‘How can you be so cruel, Henry! Enough magnificence? In my bestiary there’s no such animal.’ Casually he added, ‘Will your Remembrancer be joining us?’
‘Probably. He has no family.’
The Chancellor hesitated. The thought of Richard’s cold stare made his stomach turn over.
Henry added, ‘Tom, I was being polite. You’re to come to Cherbourg. The justiciars are joining us, my constable and some senior barons. We’ll hold Christmas in a Normandy fishing village, without the distractions of a city, so we can plan our attack on Toulouse.’ He turned as a house churl opened the door to his private study. ‘Ah, my Lady. I was just explaining to Tom his next assignment.’
The Queen ran towards her husband. Ignoring Becket she flung her arms around Henry’s neck.
There’s a wild look in her eye, the Chancellor thought.
Eleanor turned from Henry’s lips to stare at the Chancellor. ‘Tom, you’ve had one triumph in France already. You must now bring us a second. This war will cost a fortune.’
He bowed.
‘We’ll assemble the army in my wife’s territory in Poitiers in mid-summer,’ Henry said.
The Chancellor thought, If this war does not succeed, the Grand Sow will punish me. She could make it her excuse to have me expelled from the inner sanctum.