A dozen pigeons took wing that morning for their home across the Narrow Sea, where Eleanor, on reading their tiny messages, smiled to herself. At last, she thought. But is it wise? Henry has acted out of anger.
Before dawn next day, the King sailed on the Esnecca. The royal ship was painted red, with the head of a green serpent at its prow, its body snaking down each side towards the stern. The blades of the seventy oars were white. They rose and fell in time to a drumbeat, like gulls skimming the waves. As soon as the rowers cleared the mouth of the Seine, a strong sou’-wester filled the Esnecca’s red sails and the ship sped towards the tall chalk cliffs and pebble beaches of the English coast, arriving before noon under a turbulent sky.
‘No snow here. That will make our journey easier,’ Henry said.
They dropped anchor, and the King, with a half-dozen knights and an equal number of mercenaries, was rowed to shore in a smack. Grooms waited, holding mules that shivered in the cold, salty wind.
‘Has Count Philip of Flanders arrived?’ Henry asked. They were due to strike a deal for trade and solidarity in time of war.
‘We expect him today next week, sire.’
‘Her Highness will represent me. By next week I’ll have recrossed the Narrow Sea. No matter. The Count finds my wife delightful.’
The royal party set out immediately up the steep slope towards Dover Castle. Work on it was not yet complete, but it was comfortable enough for a meal and a few hours’ sleep in chambers well heated with braziers. Henry’s quarters were no better than his men’s. On campaign he shared their hardships, and they loved him for it.
‘I must arrive at Canterbury as soon as possible,’ he announced.
They set out again long after midnight, on warhorses, riding slowly in torchlight along the remains of an old Roman road. Scrubby seaside vegetation gave way to a winter forest. The bare branches felt ominous. Henry loved sunshine and the sparkle of the sea, but a grey day was dawning and his spirits sank.
His standard-bearer rode in the lead, the royal flag of gold and red drooping in the damp, cold air. Suddenly he cried in alarm, ‘Highness, look ahead!’ As he spoke, the King heard screams of anger in a dialect he didn’t understand.
At the edge of the forest, half a dozen torches lit a horrendous sight: two men hanging from an oak with ropes around their necks, one obviously strangled, the other struggling weakly to stop the noose from choking him. Below them a ragtag mob of townsmen, labourers and womenfolk shouted encouragement to a boy who had climbed the trunk and was wriggling along the branch towards the hanging bodies, a knife clenched in his teeth.
‘This doesn’t look like justice!’ Henry shouted. He spurred his mount forward, stood in the stirrups and with a slash of his sword severed the rope holding the man who still lived. With his free left arm he caught him as he fell. There was a sudden gasp, followed by the death rattle. The King sheathed his sword to hold the corpse across his knees. A knight had rushed behind him to cut down the second man, whose head drooped to his chest. A purple tongue hung out; his eyes popped from his head.
The women keened, pressing around the horses, hitting themselves on the breast and shouting what sounded like curses. Henry scanned the crowd. Some twenty yards distant, mounted on mules, were three men with flaming torches in their hands. One led a packhorse. ‘Who are they?’ the King roared. Hearing his voice, the three turned their mounts and fled. ‘After them!’
A couple of knights rode them down in less than half a league. Henry jerked his chin at the captives to approach. As their mules took a step forward, the mob turned on them, some looking for sticks or stones to hurl. The King nodded at his escort. In moments they had the crowd surrounded and had made a corridor through which the three could approach their monarch.
‘Dismount,’ he ordered. The leading man’s face was immobile with righteous pride, but as he drew closer to the King, he began to shake with fear. ‘By what law did you hang those men in the dead of night?’
‘I’m the sheriff, sire. They attacked a priest.’
‘Why?’
‘Some whores accused him.’
‘Of not paying them?’
Behind the barricade of knights, the townsmen and women continued to yell. The King turned to the mob and shouted, ‘Shut up! I’ll hear you after the sheriff has finished.’ One of the knights who spoke the dialect translated for them. The crowd grew quiet, muttering to each other.
‘We’re not sure.’
‘What do you mean? You’ve hanged two men but you’re not sure why? Did you summon a jury, as my law demands?’
‘I was unable to assemble one.’
‘I find that difficult to believe. I think, Sheriff, you tried to find twelve men to bear witness to the character of the priest, but all condemned him. So you ignored my law and took it into your own hands.’
‘No, sire! I ordered the men hanged because they assaulted our priest, who has benefit of clergy.’
‘Benefit of clergy is a claim made by churchmen when accused of crimes under the laws of the Crown. Why did he claim this noxious benefit? For not paying at the whorehouse?’
‘Sire, some claimed that he raped them.’
The King looked around at the townspeople, subdued now except for a group of wives and daughters who sobbed over the corpses of their menfolk. Another knight who also understood the Kentish dialect brought a man forward, translating into English as he spoke.
‘Lord King, our town was attacked by a demon. It was covered in oil. It would enter houses at night and rape girls and women. All summer and through autumn we suffered, but nobody could catch it because of the oil. They’d grab at it, and it would slip through their hands. We went to the priest, who said sinful women in the village had attracted it. He prayed for it to leave. And it did. But two nights ago, it came back. John Blacksmith woke and flung it to the floor. To his horror, he saw it was our priest. He tied him up, and as soon as it was light, he called the townsmen. Some of the women he’d raped who’d not dared speak up came forward. They said they recognised his smell. So we beat him.’
‘Did you release him?’
‘We had to. He threatened us with excommunication. Said he had benefit of clergy.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In the church yonder. On top of the hill.’
Henry turned to his mercenaries, mounted on rounceys. Two had the sheriff and his assistants under guard. They had not touched them, but glared unblinking at their faces, from time to time fingering short swords that hung from their belts. Mercenaries rarely rode, but because the King was in a hurry, he had ordered horses for them.
‘There’s an oily rat inside that church, men. I want you to persuade him to come out and wait for me in Canterbury when I visit the Archbishop.’
‘Sire, if he refuses to leave his sanctuary?’ the mercenary captain asked.
‘That church is made of wood. What do rats do when a house begins to burn?’
‘Flee, sire.’
Henry smiled. ‘Most observant of you, Mercador. I expect a live rat, not a cooked one. Once you have him, bring the sheriff and his accomplices along with you. I’ll consider what to do with them.’
He waved to the townspeople, who were now making an excited din. ‘You’ll have justice, my people,’ he roared. ‘The King’s law is the law of England. It rules when I am not here in person to do so myself.’ He lifted his hat to them as they strained forward to touch him for luck.
The company broke into a trot. ‘You did well, Peter and Roger,’ Henry said to the knights who had captured the sheriff. He turned to a knight from Anjou whom he’d known from childhood. The expansive feeling that a small triumph awards stole over him. ‘I know it’s said I love women and battle. But the truth, Guillaume, is that my true love is law. Without law, what’s a king? A tyrant. What’s a country? Barbarity and chaos. I feel dishonoured if this kingdom I won and put in good order has grown less civil than the dukedom I inherited. I intend to stamp out criminality among
the clergy.’ His face set hard.
‘Your Archbishop?’
‘Slowly dying. Unable to lead.’
‘If I may ask, liege, why do you visit him?’
The grey morning sky had lightened to a veil of pale blue, a watery sun glimmering behind it. Henry felt his mood lift. He leaned over and chucked the knight under the chin. ‘Maybe, after I’ve spoken to him I’ll be able to tell you.’
Could the Archbishop’s letter be a forgery? he asked himself for the hundredth time.
CHAPTER THREE
Hamelin had farewelled the Esnecca and taken a working man’s breakfast of cider and horse bread in a tavern at the docks, its air pungent with unwashed bodies. It was useful for members of the ruling family to show themselves to the hoi polloi and listen to their concerns – but unlike the Duke-King, who would bring people running, hands outstretched, eyes alight, calling him by name as if he were a brother, they approached Hamelin cautiously. All had heard he was a merlin and feared he read the thoughts inside their heads; few realised as he looked intently into their faces that his deep-green left eye had once been brown, like its pair, but now was totally blind. One had to stand very close, in sunlight, to see the faint line that crossed the sclera and pupil, memento of the point of a Welshman’s spear.
After an hour of listening to stories of ships’ captains underpaying wages and merchants evading taxes owed to ‘our Duke’, Hamelin returned through a slush of melting snow to the palace. He was about to enter his own quarters when shouts of joy and a gust of freezing air revealed that the double doors had just reopened.
Rushing into the hall, pausing to stamp snow from his boots every few strides, was a tall youth, flaxen-haired and alight with gaiety.
‘Willi!’ Hamelin shouted. He hugged the newcomer and kissed both cheeks. ‘Your face is a block of ice.’
William Plantagenet, Henry’s young brother, had just arrived in Rouen from the family’s ancestral seat in Anjou.
‘I must bathe before I call on Mother. The water will warm me up.’
‘I’ll do it faster.’ Hamelin held his hands in front of William’s face, and the younger man sighed with pleasure, feeling heat flow into his body from the merlin’s palms.
‘My horse went lame as we reached the city. I had to walk him up here.’
Hamelin flared his fine nostrils. ‘You’re warm, but you still need a bath before you visit the Empress.’
Settled in her residence in a religious house on the outskirts of Rouen, Empress Matilda, widowed mother to Henry, William and a dead second son, Geoffrey, plus three daughters, all well married, received a flow of visitors. That day, one visitor, a bishop, had brought her disturbing news.
Later in the morning, when William was announced, the prelate rose from his tête-à-tête with the grand lady.
‘What you’ve described perturbs me, Your Grace,’ the Empress said. ‘Kindly wait until my son has left and tell me the rest of the story.’
He withdrew hastily, his shoulder brushing the young man’s chest as he came through the doorway. At the sight of her youngest and most treasured child, Matilda pinked. William kneeled for her blessing before he rose and kissed her.
‘Mama, I have a report that will interest you.’
The dowager liked a moment’s mental preparation before receiving a surprise. To settle herself she cast a look at the fire as if it had been impertinent, bringing the young nun who acted as her personal maid running to stoke it up. The nun was thin, with a blotchy complexion. Matilda whispered, ‘She’s from a good family but suffers constipation.’ Her pursed lips showed her attitude to the correct functioning of bowels. She spoke to her son in the dialect of Anjou, a language the nun did not understand; the girl was, anyway, totally consumed with the effort of carrying a block of oak to the grate.
William stepped forward. ‘Please allow me.’ He lifted the log from the nun’s arms and placed it on the fire.
His mother huffed. ‘It’s her religious duty to look after me.’
When she felt the chamber was sufficiently warm, she shooed the nun off, and waited, a smile of anticipation on her lips. She was still handsome: tall, straight-backed, with grey-blue eyes that pierced stone, as her children liked to say.
‘Henry dismissed Bec from court yesterday,’ William said.
Matilda reached to take his hand. William was only eighteen, but taller than the King, his palms already hard from gripping leather and iron. She pressed his hand against her cheek.
‘You’re not pleased, Mama?’
‘I need to reflect. Becket: mouth of butter, viper’s heart.
Delightfully amusing when he chooses, and as clever as ten monkeys. It’s right that Henry should expel him from the familiares, since he should never have promoted him to it in the first place. But to exile him from court? I’m not sure that was wise.’
‘Henry said the Chancellor forgets his station; that he behaves like a duke.’
‘Bec’s an upstart. The power Henry gave him went to his head. Your brother is too generous for his own good.’
William’s cheeks coloured. ‘I have other news. Happier tidings.’
Matilda waited.
‘He has arranged a marriage between me and Isabel de Warenne, the widowed Countess of Surrey.’
The Empress lay back in her grey satin-covered chair with a contented sigh.
‘People say she’s beautiful,’ William continued. ‘Honey-brown hair, long hazel eyes …’
His mother’s glance was indulgent. ‘Whatever the colour of her eyes, darling boy, Isabel de Warenne is the richest heiress in England. And our house may soon have need of gold. What is she? Eleven years older than you? I was eleven years older than your papa. Henry’s consort is eleven years his senior. The age difference works well in our family.’
William blushed again. ‘She can’t marry until her three-year mourning is complete. She has no children, so I fear …’
The Empress gazed at the open face of her favourite. ‘It pains me to see you worry. Women ripen when heaven wills it. You’ll have children with her, William.’
‘May I convey your congratulations to Henry?’
‘No.’ Her voice was sharp. ‘You’re to tell him I’m deeply concerned about the new schism in the Church. A pope and an anti-pope! Cardinals fighting like fishwives. Your brother needs to step cautiously. He’s caught between the desires of King Louis and those of the Emperor of Germany. It could mean another war, and after the disaster of abandoning our attack on Toulouse, that would be catastrophic. Henry cannot afford any sign of weakness. You can tell him I said, “Beware Barbarossa.” I need to speak to His Highness in person as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘What is it?’ she asked sharply.
‘Actually, Henry sailed for England this morning.’
‘Why?’
William blushed yet again. ‘He refused to tell anyone. Even Hamelin.’
When her son had left, Matilda summoned the nun. ‘Tell the bishop he may return.’
In the palace of Rouen, William rushed to Hamelin’s apartment. ‘Henry did throw Bec out of court yesterday, didn’t he? Mother will be furious if I misinformed her.’
‘Threw him hard. The Empress was pleased?’
‘Yes and no. She was satisfied with the arrangement of my marriage, but ordered me not to congratulate Henry.’
‘Keep the falcon hungry.’ Like birds singing, they threw back their heads in laughter at the family joke. Hamelin added, ‘I share your mother’s doubts about Bec’s dismissal from court.’
‘I haven’t told you the whole of it. She says Henry must summon him back and – you won’t believe this – that the Queen should be present.’
The merlin ran a hand through his long black hair. ‘She referred to Eleanor as “the Queen”?’
‘Actually she said, “the Harlot of Aquitaine”.’
Their bellies quivered with amusement.
‘Mother ordered me to say she hears
unusual rumours of war, and respectfully requests the honour of a visit. She was annoyed when I told her Henry had gone to England this morning. She said time was pressing.’
‘Your mama’s spy network is the equal of any,’ Hamelin rumbled. ‘At least she had no complaints about your marriage. But you, Willi? How do you feel about it?’
William Plantagenet stared at a riding boot as if hoping it would tell him how to answer. ‘It’s strategically important for the throne. And for our house.’ Suddenly he blurted, ‘I’m only eighteen and she’s nearing thirty.’
Hamelin’s enormous voice was gentle. ‘Your father was fourteen; your mother was twenty-five and, like the Countess, a childless widow.’
The red that had faded from William’s cheeks rushed back. ‘Brother, Isabel de Warenne is a great lady of beauty and refinement. She had a vocation to be a nun but her father forced her to marry. Everyone knows she grew to love her husband and her recent widowhood grieves her deeply. I—’
Hamelin felt his thought. ‘Willi, darling, I know your only experience is with the girls from Henry’s brothels. I’ll be your tutor in the arts of love, as our father was for Henry and me.’
‘But Hamelin—’
‘Yes, although I’m celibate.’
William nodded as if he understood how a man not locked in a monastery could be celibate without going mad from unbalanced humours. He gave a shy smile. ‘Henry says that before you became a merlin …’
‘… I lifted more skirts than any man this side of the Narrow Sea. Aside from our papa, that is. I could sing in those days. Ladies love men who sing.’
‘I can sing. But I don’t practise.’
‘We’ll start with singing. This afternoon.’ Hamelin frowned. ‘Have a bath servant scrub your hands with pumice and massage them with oil.’
When the King rode into Canterbury, townspeople rushed to their doors. In the cathedral precinct, the clatter of hooves pulled monks from their books, black robes flapping. Scholars, priests senior and junior, young oblates and scribes ran to the courtyard, some exclaiming, ‘Armed men in our sacred precinct!’ Others hissed, ‘It’s the King. He may come armed if he wishes.’
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