‘You have ugly visitors, brother. I suggest you give them audience in the great hall tonight and dress formally for the occasion.’
‘God’s eyes! A morning spent with my mother lying and haranguing me with gossip from some German bishop – probably a spy for Barbarossa spreading false information. Now you wake me up with trivia.’
‘Before passing judgement, read this.’
Earlier that morning, around the time Henry had set out to call on his mother, a caress of pale sunshine had pulsed along the Seine as it flowed in from the Narrow Sea. From first light, merchants had been busy at the docks ordering labourers to load ships that would sail when the tide turned, while others watched the unloading of vessels that had just berthed. Two tall foreigners had led their steeds down the gangplank of a small, fast ship, looked around to orientate themselves, then mounted and set out at a trot for the highest point in the city, the palace. Both wore cloaks, boots and gloves for very cold weather, but the caparisons of their horses bore no insignia. As late winter sunshine struck their faces, they pushed back their hoods, smiling.
At the guardhouse, they halted and announced themselves. Guards turned to each other. Who? From where? The foreigners knew some Latin but the guardsmen did not. With jerks of their halberds they insisted the visitors dismount, which they did with glares as ferocious as wolves. On the ground, they were almost a head taller than the Normans holding them at bay. One reached inside his tunic. What he drew out flustered the chief guard. His men jostled and peered over each other’s shoulders, but when they realised what it was, they invited the visitors to remount. Voluble with excuses and hand gestures, they led the horses up the steep path to the front doors of the palace.
Hamelin watched the foreigners as they approached. As a merlin, the visions that came to him at night were his ecstasy and his torment. Some were so enigmatic it could take days for him to understand their meaning, and some he didn’t comprehend until it was too late. He was at the palace doors when the two men arrived.
‘We have a letter from the Emperor of Germany,’ one said in coarse Latin.
‘I’m constable of this city and this palace. Kindly give it to me.’
‘Our orders are to give it directly to the hand of the King of the English.’
‘He’s my brother. Give me the letter.’ Hamelin had another power: he could focus the energy in his body into a ray that he could send through his fingers. He had used it to warm Willi; he could use it to burn too. Four pale eyes, dead as corpses, confronted him. Suddenly the visitors’ hands flew to their heads. Without raising his voice, Hamelin repeated the request.
In their own language one said to the other, ‘This is the merlin we were warned of.’
‘He can lay a curse on us. We must do as he says.’
They handed over the letter. Hamelin snapped the wax seal and unrolled it, smiling faintly at the greeting: To my dear friend Henry, prince of peerless courage.
Now he loitered in the bedchamber, waiting for his brother’s reaction.
The note was brief, saying only that the Chancellor of the Emperor of Germany would arrive soon to discuss a matter of great concern to us both. It concluded with the remark, Although we have been friends for many years, never have we had the joy of meeting face to face, but we, Henry, being warriors, understand each other’s hearts.
‘You need Becket,’ Hamelin said.
‘You think I can’t handle a German Chancellor?’ Henry snorted.
‘I think you shouldn’t. When you see Barbarossa’s messengers, his meaning will be clearer. Both are brutes as tall as I, and murderers for hire.’
‘Brabants,’ Henry muttered. ‘If Barbarossa’s manners were refined, that would be an insult.’
‘His manners are brutal and this is a threat. “Meeting face to face” means “sword to sword”.’
‘Why didn’t you warn me I might need Bec so soon?’
‘Sweetheart, the very morning you dismissed him from court, I said you must recall him. You told me to piss off.’ Hamelin gave a sardonic smile. ‘Which now I shall.’
Henry bounded off his bed to order a guard to find his chief spy, linguist and puzzle-maker, the capricious, brilliant Richard the Lout. Or ‘Piglet’, depending on Henry’s mood. This beautiful young orphan adored the King, who used him for operations he would never ask from a man of good character. Only Hamelin knew the Lout’s real name, but his guides had forbidden him to utter it.
The darkness of the end of winter was already drawing in and torches lit the royal chamber by the time the young scoundrel arrived. Henry was prowling. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered.
Richard perched tentatively on the edge of a chair, because it was forbidden for a vassal to sit when the King stood.
‘I’ve a mission for you.’ Henry shot a glance at the mass of light-brown curls Richard wore cut short, just below his ears, tapered into the nape of his neck. The haircut showed off the perfection of his profile. ‘You’re to bring Becket back to court.’
‘Sire, he’d prefer to flee to the court of King Louis. Even to Barbarossa.’
Henry stood over him, reddening with anger. ‘Don’t try to teach me kingcraft, Lout. How many years were you his catamite?’
Richard gazed up, unflinching. ‘I seem to forget.’
‘He hasn’t. He showed you off like a prize falcon. Every man in the kingdom envied the Chancellor’s young Adonis.’
‘Now he hates me.’
‘Indeed. But his friend Richer de l’Aigle was most attracted to you, and still is, I don’t doubt. You leave tomorrow for Bonsmoulins. You’ll stir up trouble between them so that Bec swallows his pride and asks me to accept him back at court.’ He eased a large aquamarine off his thumb. ‘Give him this. It’s a sign he’ll recognise.’
‘A sign of what?’
Through nostrils flared with vexation, Henry drew a long breath. ‘His devotion to me, Lout.’
When Richard had left, the King sat down to write to the Queen again.
Esteemed and beloved wife, I want William and Isabel married as soon as possible. The Toulouse campaign bled us white and I now face embarrassment with finances for war. I have silver sufficient for battles but not sieges with Louis. Until the harvest is in and our taxes collected, I must somehow avoid the threat of an attack from Germany, or acquire treasure to fight it. The Countess, lovely to the eye, outshines all beauty with her gold.
That night, a storm crashed down from the north onto the Narrow Sea. The ship carrying the King’s letter set sail from Rouen but was driven onto rocks and sank. The knight charged with delivering the letter had a valiant horse that swam him to shore, but a wave swept the satchel off his shoulder into the night.
Hamelin saw it all happen – the storm, the struggling horse, the lost letter – in a dream from which he awoke flailing to keep his head above water. For once, the meaning was clear. ‘Brother, you’ve enjoyed a flood tide of fortune for many years. Now it has turned.’
Henry narrowed his eyes. ‘Tell me something I don’t know, Stupid.’
Hamelin searched his visions for something light-hearted. Nothing came, so he invented a story neither he nor Henry believed. ‘One day you’ll fall in love again, and your life will be complete.’
The King scoffed. ‘Being in love is slavery. It’s impossible for a king. Send in a scribe, darling brother. I’ll write afresh to my wife.’
That evening after supper, Henry received Barbarossa’s emissaries. His board was adorned with plates and goblets of gold chased with silver deer and hares. He himself was heavy with bullion. It bordered his velvet robe, his wrists sported wide gold bangles, and jewels shone on all his fingers. All would have to be melted down if war came.
The visitors were unaware that the King understood German. ‘We must warn the Emperor his treasury seems full,’ one remarked to the other.
Henry’s expression remained authoritative and serene as he waited for whatever they had to say to be translated into Latin. It was nothin
g really, merely a repetition of what Barbarossa had said in his letter: that soon his Chancellor would arrive for discussions. The King pretended to listen as he observed his visitors, the battle scars on their faces and the fact that one of them had lost a whole ear. He dismissed them with an amiable nod, without uttering a word. When they left, he said to Hamelin, ‘You’re right, you swine. I do need Becket.’
‘You’re sending the wrong emissary,’ the merlin replied.
CHAPTER FIVE
Henry ordered Richard, ‘You’re to take an escort of eight knights.’
‘If I travel alone, it’ll suggest a greater intimacy between you, sire.’
‘I don’t want to give that impression. He needs to understand I may be willing to have him back, but he holds no special place in my heart.’
Snow water had turned the ground to treacherous slime. A journey that in summer would be less than an hour stretched to half a day. The beautiful youth and his escort arrived by sunset at the chateau of Bonsmoulins. The men waited in a corridor warmed with braziers, where they were served food and drink, while a churl directed the King’s messenger towards a small, well-warmed chamber off the main hall.
The Eagle was in a happy mood. ‘Look-look-look!’ he cried to Becket, waving his wine cup. ‘Your chouchou searches for you!’
The Chancellor paled. Richard’s presence, once so dearly loved, now made his stomach clench. He did not rise when the King’s favourite was shown in. Nor did he invite him to take a seat.
The Baron had been fondling the ears of his lapdog, but seeing the visitor, it sat up, growling. ‘Hush, Leo. He won’t hurt you.’ To the royal emissary Richer said, ‘Darling boy, you must be half frozen. Do take a cup of warmed wine.’ He patted a seat close to the fire. His voice was a little slurred. ‘By God, you’re ambrosial! You could have stepped out of heaven.’
The visitor flashed a shy smile and lowered his gaze. ‘Sir, I don’t deserve such praise from one whose taste is so highly esteemed.’ He avoided looking at Becket, but from the corner of his eye saw him fidget.
‘Why have you come here, you little swine?’ Thomas demanded.
‘His Highness heard a rumour that you had fallen ill. He’s sent me to discover the truth, my lord.’
Becket felt his stomach heave with nervousness. Does he care for me still? he wondered. Where’s the letter dismissing me as Chancellor? It must be inside the fiend’s gown. ‘How is his own welfare?’ he asked with hauteur.
‘He has a new falcon.’ The bird was an invention that had come to Richard’s mind after he’d overheard the King’s recent remark, ‘If there’s one thing our Chancellor loves more than ostentation and boys, it’s falcons.’ He continued gazing at Becket, his pale eyes insolent but as curious and playful as a cat’s just before it strikes. ‘He said how excited you would be to cast her. She’s faster than birds from the Welsh sea cliffs. “Tom would love this creature,” he told me. “What a shame I can’t have him at court.”’
Becket rose abruptly and hurried to the latrine outside. As the contents of his stomach threw themselves out, he wondered: is it possible he wants me back? Richer said he would. But to be in his presence again … I don’t have the strength. He doesn’t know what it is to hate someone you’ve loved so passionately, for so long.
Richard spent the Chancellor’s absence flirting with the half-drunk Baron. When he judged the Eagle’s lust was sufficiently aroused to make him reckless, he whispered, ‘My lord, does your friend desire to return to court? I believe His Highness could be persuaded.’
Becket, face washed and hair combed, walked determinedly back towards the nook.
Richer de l’Aigle had sobered up. He jerked his head at the Chancellor. ‘Excuse us a moment, adorable boy.’ They walked far enough into the hall for their conversation to be inaudible. ‘I’m sure Henry sent him and wants you back. Will you return?’
‘I’d prefer to desecrate my mother’s grave.’
‘Good. Make him beg. Keep the flame of vengeance burning in your heart.’
Richard could see them and from their movements guessed at their conversation. What’ll I do with the aquamarine? he wondered.
He withdrew the ring from inside his robe. ‘Baron Richer, for your generous hospitality to England’s Chancellor and for nursing him back to health, His Highness sends you this ring. I watched him take it from his own hand.’
The two men stared at the jewel lying in the soft pink palm. Richard gave another shy smile.
‘I believe if one were to sell it – not that you would – one could buy a manor house.’
Becket suddenly shouted, ‘That’s my aquamarine! I gave it to His Highness to celebrate his victory in Wales. I don’t believe—’
‘Lord Chancellor, I only follow orders.’
‘You’ve never followed an order in your life.’
Richard turned his gaze to the Eagle. ‘Our Chancellor can be very—’
‘Very what, you slut? I hear that now you only fornicate with women.’
‘Not exclusively.’ Richard stole a glance at the Baron.
‘This interview is over,’ Becket announced. ‘I’ll not return to court. You can take my aquamarine back to His Highness and tell him to shove it up his arse.’
‘I’ll do exactly as you say.’ Richard pocketed the ring, bowed and withdrew. ‘Bye-bye, Bec,’ he called from the door.
Two angry men stared after him.
‘Thank you for depriving me of a gift from the King,’ the Eagle snapped.
‘He sent it to me, idiot, as a token of peace.’
The Baron poured himself more mead. ‘He’s still the most beautiful youth I’ve ever seen. Even his eyelashes are phallic. I don’t believe he lied about the gift.’
Becket wasn’t listening. ‘Oh, the tantrum Henry will throw when that slut returns without me, and with my message. Smashed wine cups all over the floor. I’ll write to Herbie to tell him what’s transpired.’ Herbert of Bosham was leader of the Adorables at Canterbury, a group of handsome, ambitious young clerks who ran the cathedral. Along with John of Salisbury, he was Becket’s most trusted friend.
‘A letter may be intercepted. What seal will you use? You can’t use your own, and I’ll not allow you to use mine.’
The Chancellor compressed his lips in a way the Eagle found infuriating. ‘Herbie and I have secret seals. Mine bears Jupiter’s thunderbolt.’
‘I suppose his is Aphrodite’s mirror.’
Becket was momentarily taken aback. ‘Yes, actually.’
‘So that letter that came this morning was from him.’
‘Would you like to know what was in it?’
‘No.’
‘You should. It’s a scandal. The Grand Sow wants to murder a priest. Herbie was in the chamber when the Bishop of London warned the Old Man. Theobald, our brave Archbishop of Canterbury, burst into tears. They’re burning churches! His Highness ordered the church in the village of Highhops burned down to punish the priest whom he and she have determined to put to death.’
‘Why on earth …’
‘A libel by some local whores.’
The Baron poured himself another cup of mead. ‘May the Virgin save me from the hysteria of clergy.’
‘I knew you’d take that attitude.’ Becket rose. ‘I’ll write to Herbert and tell him Henry now begs me to return.’
‘That is overstating the case, Tom.’
‘You don’t understand the cunning of his mind.’
As Becket reached the door, Richer called, ‘Tom, come back a minute.’ He ignored the Chancellor’s bored expression and deliberately slow walk. ‘Sit down.’ Thomas sighed but took a seat. ‘Gossiping to your friends may be diverting, but it does nothing to advance your cause in seizing a sword of gold. You’ve often said Herbert is well connected. I suggest you ask him to begin assembling the names of those in the Church and the baronage who are disaffected with the King. If you return to England, you’ll have a list of potential supporters.’
/> Becket blinked several times before his face broke into a smile.
The Baron was sober enough for mental activity but tipsy enough to be loose-tongued. ‘You think I’m a fool because I drink and gamble. Tom, power behind the throne is not enough – and it’s unpredictable. Henry’s more than ten years younger than you and may live many more decades. You want something soon.’
‘I want to be elevated to a bishopric. I’d have a palace. There’s a fortune to be made from relics—’
‘Bishop! Not enough. Not enough! You must have the Archbishop’s throne.’
Becket’s gaze, so soft it resembled the lapdog’s, turned sharply alert. ‘You’re raving with drink. Only monks or priests can become an archbishop.’
‘You’d turn yourself into a hippopotamus if it would achieve the destiny for greatness your mother instilled in you.’
Becket smiled again. ‘Our King is in trouble and needs me. I don’t know why, and don’t care. But after all these days of misery, how happy I am.’ He fondled the lapdog.
‘If you stick to your resolve for revenge, I’ll give him to you.’
Becket reached over and tucked the small, doting creature into the crook of his arm.
CHAPTER SIX
On Richard’s return to Rouen, no wine cups were smashed. ‘Up my arse? I didn’t hear you say that.’ Henry looked balefully at his emissary and slipped the aquamarine back on his thumb. The young man muttered an apology and withdrew. The King turned to his brother. ‘So Becket is obdurate. We’ve a few weeks before the ambassador arrives.’
Hamelin rumbled, ‘Use William.’
The Lions' Torment Page 4