At the beginning of September while the great army still ravaged the province of Toulouse, the first Englishman to be elected Pope, Adrian IV, died. Two men were proposed to succeed as Bishop of Rome, one candidate nominated by the Holy See, the other by the Emperor of Germany, who threatened another invasion of Lombardy if his man was overlooked. The Church in Europe was riven, but The Almighty remained aloof, refusing to make clear the choice for His earthly representative. By the end of the month, however, it seemed He was prepared to answer the prayers of the inhabitants of the capital, besieged for three months, already starving and short of water. There had been no attack on the city, while outside its walls sickness ravaged the invaders. William of Warenne, a young man of sweetest temperament, lay dying of fever in the King’s arms. ‘Find a good husband for my Isabel,’ he whispered.
Henry reassured him, ‘My own youngest brother, also named William, will be her husband. Of all my kin, after Guillaume, I love him best. He’s as sweet a man as you. He’ll give your Isabel the tenderness she deserves.’
The Earl died that afternoon.
‘England has lost one her finest ornaments. No gentler man ever drew breath.’ Henry spoke these words over a hastily assembled coffin in which the Earl of Surrey would return to his native land.
‘I blame that quinny, the Chancellor,’ knights of Warenne muttered together. ‘He wrote to our lord insisting it was a matter of honour that he join this stupid war.’
‘His lady pleaded with him not to go. I heard her say, ‘My Dove, it’s not Henry who asks you. It’s only that Chancellor. Refuse his request, I beg you, I have a bad feeling about Toulouse.’
Henry called another war counsel at which he put the case for the army to withdraw. As he expected, Béziers and Montpellier shouted that to withdraw without attack on the city was the act of cowards, that they were men of courage! Suddenly the English Chancellor’s voice joined theirs. ‘Even if our King is not!’
Henry stared open-mouthed. ‘Are you mad?’
‘I’m not mad, Henry! It’s you who’s mad. Genuflecting to ancient superstitions.’
The King’s glance darted to the Count of Barcelona. He was shorter than Becket, but a warrior. He took the Chancellor’s arm with a grip that made him wince and together they walked outside. In Latin the Count said, ‘Never have I heard a barking dog as deserving of the whip as you.’
Becket did not follow this short, fast harangue, but understood the fury in his voice. The Count took a step backwards, kicked Becket in the shin, slapped his face, turned and re-entered the royal tent. The Chancellor limped to his own tent where a group of his followers waited for him. All were men born of low rank who had bettered themselves through guile or foul play. They attached their hopes for further advancement to Becket, preening themselves on their resemblance to him in the early circumstances of his life, watching his assemblage of the mighty army, believing him when he declared, ‘The King does everything I tell him.’ Their relentless flattery and pandering buoyed his sense of power. The Beast has his army. I have mine, Thomas thought.
‘I made my point,’ he announced. ‘His Highness was furious. As usual.’ They hooted with laughter.
At the war meeting the decision to withdraw was made within half an hour. The province of Toulouse was a ruin. Only the county of Quercy had been won for Aquitaine, but no Earl in Henry’s army was willing to take command of holding it through the winter.
When Eleanor heard the news she sobbed for half a day. Later, she wrote to Petronilla.
Never again shall the House of Aquitaine stretch from the Atlantic to the shore of the Middle Sea. My husband has let me down and my admiration for his military genius is lost. He was outwitted by Louis. Dear sister, how can I stomach this?
She laid her quill aside, gazing at light that played against the walls of her chamber in the luxurious, golden hues of late autumn. Like a death in the family, she realised that the death of her ambition to own Toulouse had suddenly re-arranged all the emotional furniture in her life. Her sense of powerlessness, of being nothing but a womb for Henry’s heirs, flipped over. ‘When my sons are grown to manhood, Petronilla, our House will far outnumber in princes the House of Capet. And then, my dear …’ A new sense of purpose enters me. I must recognise this defeat for what it brings; a chal enge to create power for myself. I must have more children. They’ll be the true Queen’s Gold.
The King rode to Poitiers to spend a night with her, but was so disheartened he had little to say. He stroked her hand. For love to flourish it needs the nurture of some illusions about the loved one, he thought. My wife feels disillusioned with me. He wandered from her chamber to his own where he ordered the services of a milking woman.
At breakfast Henry announced, ‘Louis has attacked Normandy. I can’t tarry here.’
Eleanor was dismayed. ‘What of holding Quercy, our only prize?’
‘Nobody will shift my men from Castlenau’s château. Nor Cahors. Since every Earl rejected the commission of holding Quercy during the coming winter I’ve put the Chancellor in charge, along with that cur, Henry of Essex. In Wales he threw down the royal standard and fled. They’re a matched pair.’
He rose and was about to leave when he hesitated and beckoned Eleanor from the dining chamber onto a balcony. Her palace gardens were lush and fragrant, the plashing of a fountain just a few yards from where they stood helped cover Henry’s voice. ‘Bec insulted me in front of the commanders of the army. He virtually called me a coward for refusing to break my oath to Louis. In six years at court he’s not learned the first lesson of feudal honour.’
‘Not learned because he doesn’t understand, Cousin. As I’ve said since the day of our coronation, Bec’s lack of breeding, useful in some areas, is treacherous in others. While the war continues I have young Henry and the other children here with me. But once Bec returns to England he’ll be raising our Crown Prince. It’s been announced to the whole world, he made sure of that.’
Her husband coloured. ‘I can’t go back on my word without losing authority.’ They looked at each other, faces grim. Henry saw in his wife’s expression a new determination. He was surprised she seemed less disheartened by the failure to take Toulouse than he. He felt even gloomier. I did it for her and she doesn’t even care. She didn’t have to watch good men dying, he thought. ‘I can’t toss Becket away like a pair of worn shoes. It’s through him we arranged the marriage of Louis’ princess and our Henry. And Bec’s still the cleverest financier in England. Probably in Europe.’
‘He knows it.’
‘His extravagance is beyond belief,’ Henry muttered. ‘I had to loan him a fortune while we were in Toulouse. He spent money on “personal knights” as if they were greedy countesses. He refused to eat field rations with the men as I did. A “personal cook” was required for his meals. And valets to keep his clothes clean.’
Eleanor had made no mention of the appalling state of Henry’s dress. He paced back and forth on the balcony. ‘There’s something I don’t understand. How does he do it? How did he charm Louis? Your ex-husband is among the most narrow-minded monarchs in Europe, his dignity always foremost in his thinking. Yet Bec delighted him, despite the fact that his appetite for luxury appalled Louis. The King of France was appalled and delighted all at once. It’s how I’ve felt about Bec ever since I made him Chancellor.’
‘He’s a master of allure,’ Eleanor replied. ‘A sinister spirit lurks in him; it wears a charming face to hide terrible ideas.’ As I do now, she thought.
Suddenly Henry had had enough of ill news. He flicked his hand in the air and grinned. ‘At last I’m off to a real battle!’
The chroniclers recorded that in late autumn, just before the fighting season’s end, Henry, Duke of Normandy, swooped through his territory, expelled Beauvaise and Dreux and devastated their lands. He forced the Count of Evreux to pay him homage, handing over so many castles that the domain of King Louis was effectively cut in two. The fighting season closed. A truce was arranged to last until the following May, when the Day of Pentecost would return and with it, warfare.
Henry and Hamelin moved into the palace of Rouen. ‘By the end of the truce Louis will have cooled down,’ Henry said. ‘I’ll return his castles and territory. I may even allow Evreux to withdraw his homage to me. My accord with Louis will mend.’
‘The point at which it was broken will always remain visible,’ Hamelin rumbled.
‘You’re unbearable! Why don’t you trim your beard? And find a way to dye your hair so you look less like a circus freak. Have you seen your mother yet?’
‘She began crying the moment I walked in the door. She’s promised she’ll tell no one. Not even the Empress.’
But while the King was in the north defeating his enemies, in the south of France England’s Chancellor, left in charge of holding Quercy for the House of Aquitaine, became merciless. His subjugation of the populace was universally deplored. Churches were burned with the faithful inside. The countryside was ravaged so when winter came starvation would accompany it. Throughout western Europe that winter was one of the bitterest in living memory. It began early, with snow falling in late November, in parts blanketing roads to the height of a man’s knees. ‘God turns His face away in disgust,’ people said, referring to the problem of electing a new Pope.
Henry and Eleanor held an abbreviated Christmas Court in Falaise, the weather too dangerous for many guests to travel. For months they had not kissed each other except as a public exchange of Christmas peace and goodwill, but out of habit they lay together during the days until Epiphany. I no longer please her, Henry thought bitterly as she left his bed after the final night of the Christmas Court. And she makes no attempt to please me. I could be lying with a corpse.
In England with snow covering Kent down to the seashore, Canterbury Cathedral was so cold that the masses of Christmas Day were celebrated in a building three-quarters empty. Archbishop Theobald was too incapacitated he did not appear. He could make scant contribution towards healing the schism in the Church. No longer could he write in his own hand to Becket. Scribes wrote the words they heard whispered to them, begging the Archdeacon to return to Canterbury so Theobald could gaze upon his face before he died. ‘If he doesn’t come I’ll excommunicate him!’ he rasped one morning in a fit of temper. Despite his personal anguish at Thomas’s neglect of him, the Archbishop did not cease to pray nor to urge the many bishops of England who came to visit him to accept ‘our Archdeacon and Chancellor’ as his replacement. ‘The man most suited to protect the rights of Mother Church against any encroachment that may be considered by the Crown. And the man whom His Highness trusts so deeply he has given the Crown Prince to educate in his household. The blessing of amity between Cross and Sword in England exists for all to give thanks to God. The friendship between these two men was made in heaven.’
After such speeches he needed hours to recover. In letters to Henry, Theobald urged the King to support a suave canon lawyer from Lombardy as the next Pope.
Henry summoned Eleanor to ride north to Rouen and to sail from there to Southampton to collect gold he urgently needed. She arrived in Normandy in a mood her husband found surprisingly cheerful and calm, considering the physical coolness between them and the humiliation of Toulouse. His own mood was lifted by Hamelin, who told him that it was not Louis’ wit, but his sister’s, Constance, Countess of Toulouse, who had advised the French King to guard the city and not attempt to fight Henry. He decided to tell Eleanor. She listened, smiling slightly.
‘Women are rarely given credit for their intelligence,’ she said, and gave a brief laugh. ‘Constance! I used to plot with her how I could divorce from Louis while keeping Aquitaine.’
‘It seems she learned well from you, Cousin.’
Their eyes fastened on each other. When Eleanor relinquished the grip of her gaze she murmured, ‘How did you get this information?’
‘A spy.’
I don’t believe him. But how else could he have gained such intelligence? ‘I best be off,’ she replied blithely.
Eleanor sailed through a winter tempest, collected the gold and sailed back to Rouen. As soon as the weather eased she would return to England as Regent. The monarchs had been away from their realm for more than a year and there was much to be done. Before she left with the gold for Rouen she exulted to de Beaumont and de Lucy, ‘How I shall enjoy being Regent without that Chancellor tripping me up over every trifle.’
Before snow made all roads impassable except those close to the coast, where the wind from the sea was bitter, Becket, wrapped in so much fur he resembled a bear, left Quercy and rode north to Rouen. In Normandy there had been two weeks of winter sunshine that melted the deepest snow. When Becket arrived, Henry was away inspecting areas of his domain that had suffered attack. Richard, Hamelin and a small body of knights accompanied him. Becket meanwhile installed himself in his normal apartment in the palace. The Queen acknowledged him with the faintest nod when he arrived in the dining hall. ‘I leave for England tomorrow,’ she said. ‘You’ll have the palace to yourself.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy that, Bec. You can stride around the hall pretending you’re the Duke.’
‘H-h-highness, you’re unkind to me.’
‘I am unkind to you, Chancellor?’ Her voice rose with anger. ‘Your cruelty to the inhabitants of Quercy will live in infamy for a thousand years! As a result of your treatment of them they hate their new overlords, Henry and me. Don’t dare speak of unkindness. You disgust me.’
You disgust me, you hypocritical sow. Twenty years ago it was your doing that a thousand inhabitants of Vitry burned to death, hundreds of them the faithful, inside their church.
The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. As soon as it ended Eleanor sent word to Henry by post-rider that Becket was in Rouen. On receipt of her note the King called Richard to his quarters in the manor house where they lodged. ‘You’re to ride as fast as you can back to the palace. Every letter the Chancellor sends and receives I want read and copied,’ he said. He handed his Remembrancer the royal seal. Months earlier Richard had inscribed in a cube of soft pinewood the Chancellor’s seal, Richer de l’Aigle’s plus a dozen more.
In Rouen next morning, as protocol demanded, Becket escorted the Queen from the palace to the wharf where she embarked for England. He then rode out to call on the Empress. Matilda had withdrawn to a religious institution a short ride distant.
She sent out a note with a novitiate nun that said, ‘You insulted my son in front of his nobles. Ask his forgiveness. If he gives it I may receive you.’
Richard was haggard from hard riding, lack of food and sleep. He had changed horses four times and arrived at the palace before Becket’s response to the Empress had been dispatched. In the freezing weather he kept his head and face covered. He had only to flash the royal seal to the guards for them to let him through the gates. ‘I’m not here,’ he muttered. ‘No, sir,’ they answered smartly.
‘You are to give me all letters to and from the Chancellor.’
‘Understood, sir,’ they replied.
Richard carefully broke the wax on Becket’s letter, read it, copied it, waxed his copy and had it sent to the Empress. The Chancellor’s note to the King’s mother was inconsequential, merely, ‘Empress, your word is my command.’ But his next missive was more interesting. It was addressed to Richer de l’Aigle with whom Becket had made peace once more. Their relationship had been this way for decades; a fight, a reconciliation, another fight.
‘Never before has she refused me an audience, Riche,’ he wrote. ‘I feel they’re ganging up on me. I sense a wall of royal disapproval rising against me, at least among the females. I must have a private conversation with Henry. I know he’ll forgive my outburst during the war council. He always forgives me.’ Because the King was away and he was the only senior official in the palace, he felt confident in committing his thoughts to parchment.
The Baron read what Becket had written. Tom is shaken, he decided. He realises he overstepped the bounds of rank, but he doesn’t understand the seriousness of his ill-manners, although he’s clever enough to know he may not easily escape their consequences. He needs a plan. In fact, he needs two plans.
He spent a day in thought before he sat down to reply. He wrote:
Besides Henry’s forgiveness, before you meet him, you must decide exactly what you want of him. Don’t be vague. Be forthright. He valued that in you in the past; he’ll value it again. But before you get to that point, Tom, you must grovel.
When he read his friend’s advice the Chancellor stormed back and forth in his apartment. Grovel! I’ll not grovel. I want his admission that in Hereford he anointed me with his seed. I’ve been intoxicated with nostalgia for those nights ever since. For two years now he’s pretended nothing happened. He wounds me intentional y. It’s that which makes me lash out at him – the black melancholy of knowing our nights of love denied, my devotion to him spurned. I’ve hinted about it to the Sow already. If he persists, I’ll tell her outright. I won’t be deterred by her haughty, hideous glare. If I can drive a wedge into that marriage, Henry will come to me. He’ll need comfort for his heart if she rejects him as a husband.
Almost all these thoughts he then wrote in a letter to Richer.
Richard carefully broke the wax on Becket’s letter, his eyes wide as he read it. In his snug private quarters near the King’s, he copied the letter in a hand so like Becket’s that nobody but the man himself might notice a difference. He waxed it, stamped it with the false seal and sent if off with a post-rider. The Chancellor had no idea that he and Richard lodged under the same large roof.
Next day, as the early dark of winter approached, a shout went up from the gatehouse followed by the clatter of a troop of horses. ‘Our Duke returns!’ men hoorayed. The garrison rushed out to greet him, yelling and throwing leather caps in the air. Becket hastily arranged a full-length pine marten cloak around his shoulders, fastened its gold clasp and sallied forth into the cold. But his apartment was at a distance from the royal entrance and by the time he arrived at the steps only the imprints of boots were visible. Henry had already disappeared.
‘Where is His Highness?’ he asked a churl.
‘In his quarters, sir. Not to be disturbed.’
Becket watched a dozen knights strolling towards the royal apartment, the mastiffs trotting behind them. A slap in the face, he thought. Another one.
‘His Remembrancer?’ he asked the servant. ‘Did he return with the King?’
‘Dunno,’ the man replied.
While they were speaking Henry was immersed in a bath with Hamelin, both of them alert but dreamy. Richard sat on a stool in the corner, reading aloud the letters between Richer and Becket. His hands shook slightly and he was pink with embarrassment. Every so often he stopped when a bath servant entered with an additional pail of hot water. Three braziers heated the chamber, making it so hot perspiration stood on Richard’s upper lip. Periodically he needed to remove another layer of clothing until he was wearing nothing above the waist but a linen shirt.
‘Anointed,’ Hamelin murmured as he listened to Richard’s musical voice. A king is anointed. He considers himself the equal of a king.
Henry splashed water at his brother to draw his attention. ‘Look at Richard’s muscles,’ he said. ‘He’s learning to fight. What d’you think of that? It’ll ruin his handwriting, won’t it?’
‘Not necessarily. I think it’s a good idea.’ Hamelin yawned and stretched, his arms and legs as lithe as a panther’s.
‘What’s good about it?’ Henry demanded.
‘Haven’t you been listening to what your Chancellor says about you?’
‘You think young Richard will protect my royal person from that mad squirrel?’
‘Possibly.’ Hamelin yawned again.
‘Bullfrog! Past your bedtime, is it?’
In one bound Hamelin leapt from the bathtub, flooding the stone tiles with soapy water, creating a backwash that broke in a wave over Henry’s head.
Richard gazed up at the lean magnificent body that towered in front of him, dripping water over his shirt. Hamelin leaned to his ear. ‘Keep practising,’ he murmured in his deep-as-midnight voice.
The younger man gulped. They were the most gracious words the King’s brother had ever spoken to him.
The three men and the knights they had ridden with ate together in the King’s private dining chamber. Becket sent in a note asking if he might have audience.
‘What’s “piss off” in Latin?’ Henry whispered to Richard, who thought a minute before writing it down.
Across the table Hamelin shook his head.
The King raised his voice. ‘Churl, please tell the Lord Chancellor that we are fatigued after our exertions of the past fortnight and will meet with him as soon as possible.’ He cocked an eyebrow at his brother, who nodded.
After supper the royal prostitutes arrived, each one perched on the shoulder of a knight, each swathed in furs, squealing and kicking her legs beneath bright, gorgeously embroidered robes. Henry chose two to take away for the night, Hamelin excused himself and the rest of the party continued until they fell asleep. Becket was informed within the hour. He flung himself face down on his bed and screamed with rage.
It was another two days before Henry sent a message that he was ready to see him. Their meeting place was his small private audience chamber in the heart of the palace, next to a private courtyard. It was well lit with torches because the light that, in summer months, would enter its windows from the courtyard, was blocked by thick red canvas blinds that stretched from the ceiling to the floor. The blinds kept out the cold and their colour cast a rosy glow of warmth across the chamber. The King was seated a few yards in front of the fireplace the Queen had installed. Flames leaped around its logs. The whole space was deliciously inviting compared with other areas of the palace. Even Becket’s splendidly appointed apartment suffered from the damp winter air. Outside the weather was so bleak that hunting was unthinkable. In the past two days, between bouts of correspondence and conversation, Henry and Hamelin, sometimes joined by Richard, played chess. The brothers wrestled to keep their muscles hard and in the late afternoons in the great hall they kicked a ball with men from the garrison to maintain their agility.
Hamelin lounged on a couch. Richard was seated at the desk he used since he had grown too tall for a chair with a plank across his knees. Before the Chancellor arrived Hamelin said, ‘He’ll want Richard and me to leave. He believes he’s your lover. In his long march towards grandeur, in his mind you are his greatest conquest, Henry.’
‘I realise that, stupid. What’s your point?’
‘If you destroy a man’s most cherished fantasy, do you destroy the man?’
Richard raised his head. In a soft voice he said, ‘Sire, in recompense for the trouble I’ve caused I’d be honoured if you would allow me to murder him.’
Henry and Hamelin exchanged glances. Hamelin nodded very slightly.
With an equally small movement Henry shook his head. ‘I didn’t hear that,’ he said. ‘Gather your writing things and go over there. Invent some puzzles for me.’ As the youth moved to the corner the King added, ‘Outrageous monster! I should murder you.’
‘Yes, Sire,’ Richard grinned. ‘You probably should.’
Hamelin strolled from his couch to the King’s desk and bent to his ear. ‘Let Richard do it,’ he said. ‘You can find another Chancellor. Bec will bring you nothing but grief.’
‘I can’t,’ Henry said. ‘He suffered a grave injustice from Richard. As soon as the little fiend confessed to me I should have ordered him to confess to Bec … I was dilatory. Now I have this mess.’
Hamelin repeated, ‘Henry, give Richard permission.’
The King slapped his palm on the desk. ‘Stop saying that! Half of this is my fault. It would be dishonourable to punish him for an illusion.’
For his audience with the King, Becket dressed in his most flattering colour, a deep rose-pink. January snow was falling steadily. As an amusement he decided to match the white that cloaked the landscape with a cloak of winter stoat. Stately and swan-like he glided forwards. When he entered the glowing pink chamber he was astounded to see the young murderer on whom he had spat stretched out on a lounge, dressed in the velvet robes of an aristocrat. His fingers were jewelled and a heavy gold chain hung around his neck. The streak of white hair fell over his left eye to his shoulder, as elegant as white feathers on a black wing. The monarch, as usual, was in lambskin and leather with sheepskin boots. But his hair was finely combed, his beard precisely trimmed and he had recently perfumed himself.
‘You smell wonderful, Henry,’ the Chancellor said as he bent to kiss the royal cheek.
He swung the weighty ermine cloak from his shoulders and tossed it over the back of a chair.
Henry inclined his regal head. ‘Tom, before you speak, there’s something I want to say in the presence of my brother, Hamelin, whom you see is now welcome back in my court. It was a grievous period for me to live without the comfort and advice of Guillaume. Hamelin fills what was a gaping wound in my soul.’
The Chancellor listened, nodding sympathetically, while desperately wondering, How will I win him over after spitting on his foot? Henry was saying, ‘The thing is this, Tom. Guillaume’s death was my fault. At that time, in the forest of Woodstock, I took a vow that never again will you have cause to consider me your lover.’
‘What are you saying!’
‘I’m saying that a precious life was lost. As that life closed, so did …’ he drew a deep breath, ‘… whatever feelings I had for you.’
‘You reject me!’
‘Tom, my brother died. I honour his memory with a sacred vow.’
‘You had a Breton sailor in your bed as recently as last Christmas.’
Henry’s face flushed with temper. ‘I did not! That’s a lie Richard told you. He confessed it to you. Didn’t you, you louse?’
Richard nodded.
‘Probably another lie,’ Becket muttered. ‘So for more than two years you have …’ The Chancellor began gulping air. ‘… you have l-l-led me on? Led me to believe …’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
The chamber, as warm and encompassing as a womb, became still. Outside falling snow hushed the world. Henry drew a long, calm breath. ‘My mother told you years ago our family motto is: Keep the falcon hungry.’
The Chancellor stared into the fire crackling behind the King. The flames seemed to have put him into a trance from which he could not break free. He began speaking to himself, but what he said was audible to Hamelin. ‘My whole world falls in ruin. Everything I believed was a lie. I slaved for a master out of love. He kept me enslaved because it was effective. I was effective. Without my gathering taxes would he even be a king? He raised his voice. ‘In your court, Henry, what is truth?’
Henry shrugged. ‘Pilate’s question.’
Becket jumped up. ‘But unlike Pilate, I’ll wait for an answer. And you can’t just wash your hands of me. I know too much.’ He began to walk about the chamber, running his fingers through his hair in distraction. Fury emanated from him in almost palpable waves of hatred.
I wish I hadn’t sent the mastiffs back to England, Henry thought. They’d calm him down. ‘What did you want to ask me?’ His voice was calm.
Becket spun round. ‘You’ve answered me already. I wanted to ask if you still loved me. Obviously you never did.’
‘I never loved you in the way you wanted me to – physically. But I did love you.’
The answer calmed Becket for a moment. He glanced back at the fire then returned to his chair. There was silence but for crackles and spits from the burning logs. Becket swallowed. ‘When something of importance is at stake you always choose your words carefully, Henry. What did you mean when you said you never loved me physically? Are you saying that because your brother and that snake are present in this chamber you’re embarrassed to admit what we did in Hereford?’
‘I say it because it’s the truth,’ Henry said dryly. ‘The man you believed was the King was one of my vassals.’
‘Quick!’ Hamelin said. He dashed to the Chancellor who, falling forward from his seat was inches from striking his head on the floor. He and Henry carried him to the couch. The King summoned a house churl to bring cups of whey for Becket and Richard and mulled wine for himself and Hamelin.
‘This is far from over,’ Henry muttered in langue d’oc.
Becket slowly regained consciousness. With an unsteady hand he took a gulp from the cup. ‘A vassal, you say?’
Henry nodded.
‘Did you know all along?’
‘I had no idea until he confessed to me. Until then, I found your behaviour peculiar, confronting and objectionable. Frankly.’
‘Frankly. Frankly,’ the Chancellor muttered to himself.
‘Frankly you made a fool of me! I was madly in love with you. I adored you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. But some bastard …’ he glanced at Hamelin, ‘… some magnate’s son, some fucking Earl …’
The King said. ‘Maintain respectful language in my presence, Becket.’
Thomas drained the cup, raised his arm and smashed it on the floor, shards flying like sparks from the fire. ‘I’m returning to England.’
‘Not without my permission.’
‘Am I your prisoner?’
‘Not at all. I’ve read your letters to Richer and his to you. You’re my vassal. I could have you charged with treason. I’ve given deep thought to this situation. Neither of us wants a misunderstanding bruited around the streets of Winchester and London. The ship of state must sail on a calm sea. You’ll remain free. And my Chancellor.’
Becket quivered. Does he plan to banish me when he’s found a replacement. Where! An island north of Scotland? One can’t travel for ten months of the year. Maybe Germany? He gets on well with the tyrant, Red Beard.
‘You’re a man of vaulting ambition, Bec. If you had wings you’d fly to the sun. I’ve looked away when you stole money. I blocked my ears when you referred to the Queen as “a sow” and me as a beast and a monster. When you bribed ambassadors to tell me lies. When you debauched children not yet at puberty. You came from the gutters of London, hungry as a rat.’ Henry’s gaze was relaxed and carnivorous. ‘Your belongings have been packed. A wagon waits outside to convey you to a tavern in Rouen. So does your friend, Richer de l’Aigle. I hope he invites you to stay in one of his châteaux. The tavern is rather uncomfortable, but I’ve lodged in worse places.’ Henry pointed to the door.
‘I am to address you in future as “Sire”?’
‘I think that’s obvious.’
At the palace doors two wagons waited. One contained a mountainous pile of Becket’s appurtenances, a canvas cover thrown over them to protect silks and furs from snow. The other contained a shivering Baron Richer de l’Aigle. Snowflakes hushed the stamping of the horses’ feet as the animals tried to keep themselves warm.
‘Quick, climb in,’ Richer said.
Becket heaved himself inside the wagon, let his head fall back against is padded sides and closed his eyes.
‘A post-rider brought me a royal summons to wait at the palace this morning. I’ve been here an hour, freezing to death. I wish I had that ermine cloak you’re wearing. You look like a prince. What’s happened?’
The man whose lustrous eyes could make people believe an icon had turned its head to gaze at them clapped a jewelled hand over his mouth to hide his misery.
Richer pushed a cup of wine into the other hand.
‘Cheer up, Tom. I suppose he’s still furious with you about what happened in Toulouse. Everyone knows you insulted him in front of his commanders. I’ve just come from Paris where the court speaks of nothing else. They’re singing tavern songs about it.’
Becket groaned.
‘And Quercy …’ Richer added. ‘Louis is said to be enraged about what you did in Quercy. Henry must be angry too.’
‘The Sow screamed at me about it. She’s always hated me. She’s behind half of this.’ He downed the cup of wine and held it out for a second pour. He downed that too.
‘Where shall I tell the driver to take you? Are you going to England?’
‘I’m going to hell!’
‘What?’
‘I’m being flung back to where I was six years ago. A palace servant. His vassal who must obey his every word.’
‘But, Tom you’re a member …’
‘He’s expelled me from the familiares. Pour me another drink, Riche.’
Inside the audience hall Hamelin strolled about in front of the fire. ‘What now, Henry?’
‘A king has many enemies; they come, they go. I’ve just made another one.’
‘You’ve made an enemy for life.’
Henry nodded. ‘Perhaps. Even so, I pity him.’
Hamelin’s eyes were unworldly and humane but they could, in an instant, come down to earth with the hardness of iron in them. ‘He who shows mercy to an enemy denies it to himself, brother.’ He paused to see the effect of his warning on Henry.
‘I’ll think of a way to restore his self-regard. I’ll kick him upstairs somewhere.’
A sad smile spread across Hamelin’s face.
From his seat in the corner Richard dropped his head in his hands. His shoulders jerked with sobbing. ‘I shouldn’t have done it,’ he snivelled.
‘No, you shouldn’t have. But you did. And I forgave you. Therefore the problem rests with me,’ Henry said.