A flush of spring now enlivened the forest trees where William was hunting. His only bag was six thin rabbits. He’d seen a mother bear with toddling cubs but rode around them. His squire said, ‘My lord, young bearskin is highly prized. We’ve enough arrows to take all of them.’
‘Not on their first day of life outside the den.’
Back in the palace, he listened to his brothers. ‘You’ll succeed where Richard failed,’ Hamelin said after Henry had spoken. ‘The Baron is perpetually in need of money and would have sold the aquamarine. He’ll be pleased to be rid of his guest.’
Queen Eleanor left Westminster for Winchester, to hold court there. London was overtaking the old capital in size and commercial importance, but many of the most elegant houses were still to be found in the south-west of the country. Her husband’s grandfather had built the palace there, creating a structure not especially large but in all its proportions expressing the remarkable feature of Norman architecture, a perfection of geometry that inspired awe. Like the monarchs, the palaces cast a spell over their subjects.
Eleanor’s personal maid, Orianne, was still unpacking when a page arrived with the letter from Henry urging her to make haste. As she read, she knitted her brows. ‘Buttercup, leave those clothes and find the Countess of Surrey. She’s somewhere near Winchester.’
The yellow-haired young woman returned quickly. ‘The lady of Warenne is just four streets away.’
‘Excellent. Fetch me something to take as a little gift.’
‘A ring?’
‘No.’
‘A gyrfalcon?’
‘Too extravagant, and she’s not keen on hunting.’
‘A kitten?’
‘Perfect! You’re to carry it.’
Accompanied by ten guardsmen, they arrived at the Countess’s manor, one of dozens she owned, along with a magnificent castle, vast, fertile hides, innumerable horses, farm animals, watermills and the service of five thousand vassals of various ranks. She was, unsurprisingly, in her private chapel but hurried out to meet the Queen.
‘You honour me, Highness.’
‘Isabel, my dear, call me Eleanor. God willing, we’ll soon be sisters-in-law. Orianne, give her ladyship the basket.’
‘Adorable! How old is he?’
‘She’s ten weeks, but already clean.’
As soon as they were seated, the Countess took the kitten on her lap. Having woken up when the basket lid was opened, it promptly went back to sleep.
‘Isabel, I know you realise I’m overloaded with work, so I shan’t waste time in chatter. I’m leaving for Rouen in less than two weeks and I’d like you to accompany me. We can take the kitty.’
‘Normandy!’
‘You’re yet to meet your husband-to-be, who’s usually in Anjou. But for another month he’ll be in Normandy. I believe you should—’
‘Eleanor, forgive me. I cannot. I would be betraying—’
The Queen cut her off. ‘Outside the walls of Toulouse, as he lay dying in Henry’s arms, your husband asked the King to find a good spouse for you. You have accepted Henry’s choice of his own youngest brother, Viscount William. If on meeting William you find him objectionable, of course Henry will not force you to marry.’ He will. We need your money. She smiled. ‘The reason for your journey is that you long to build a remembrance shrine for your dear dead husband in Toulouse.’
The Countess blushed, then smiled.
The Queen had seen Isabel several times at court but had never studied her. Her appearance was more than pleasing: even in the unbecoming black of widow’s weeds, she was a beauty. She wore no rings on her long, slender fingers and was without jewels around her neck. Since they were indoors and out of the sight of men, her thick honey-brown hair draped over her shoulders in a supple curtain that reached the centre of her back. I was your age when I fell in love with Henry’s father, Eleanor thought. She felt a bolt of lightning. You, Isabel, so pious, so demure, are as wolfish in passion as I. She reached out and took the younger woman’s hand. ‘You’re not frightened of the sea, are you, my dear?’
‘I am, actually.’
‘Put that fear to rest. The King will allow us to use the royal ship Esnecca. It’s huge. It has a hundred oarsmen and fifty sailors, all of whom can swim.’ Some of them, anyway. ‘You’ll have a royal cabin. If we left Southampton in the morning, we’d be in Rouen in time for dinner.’ She paused again. ‘The captain knows the Narrow Sea better than he knows his wife.’
As she removed her hand from Isabel’s, she gave the kitten a quick tickle. It woke and began to purr. Within moments, the Countess relaxed.
‘May I think on it overnight?’
‘Of course!’ Eleanor was already on her feet.
Outside the manor she turned to Orianne. ‘What’s your guess?’
‘I don’t know, Highness.’
The Queen smiled. ‘I have several petitions I want to hear myself in Winchester; the rest I’ll hand to the justiciars. The Countess and I will sail in a week.’
Back in the palace, she sat at her desk and wrote in her own hand a note to Henry: I must have Esnecca.
‘Orianne, the wind is too harsh for pigeons. A post rider is to take this to Southampton. It’s to go on the fastest ship, fishing smack, whatever, to reach Rouen tomorrow.’ She noted the puzzlement in her favourite’s expression. ‘There’s been a development, Buttercup. Haste is necessary.’
‘May I ask about this development, Highness?’
Her mistress frowned. ‘My husband is beset by dangerous foes.’
William and ten knights caparisoned in the scarlet and gold lions of the Duke of Normandy set out for Bonsmoulins. The slushy ground was drying, though still slippery, but they had chosen sure-footed horses and arrived before dinner time. The party had their own provisions. Henry’s instruction had been that they were not to eat under the Baron’s roof.
Since Richard’s visit, Becket’s moods had swung between hope, fury and a distracted aloofness when he meditated on the prize he so desired. His health had returned and for amusement Richer summoned a choir of boys, who, after singing, danced for them. One of them looked undernourished and, on being questioned, admitted he had not eaten for a day. The Chancellor saw to it that he and the others were served a hot meal in the kitchen. He pressed a silver penny into the child’s hand. ‘Return tomorrow,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll show you something exciting.’
‘You might as well feed seagulls,’ Richer said irritably. ‘The place will be crawling with urchins in a week.’
‘And if it is? They’re children of your vassals. You should feed them, Riche.’
‘You think I own a silver mine?’
In place of further conversation they played a vicious game of chess.
When William and his escort were spotted approaching the chateau, a churl went running inside to find his master. ‘The King’s brother, my lord. The King’s brother arrives with a party of knights.’
‘The King’s brother,’ Becket scoffed. ‘I hate that bastard. If Henry imagines Hamelin will succeed with his magic where Richard failed with his seductive beauty, he is, indeed, mad. Riche, tell him I won’t receive him.’ He remained at the chessboard, brooding on the pieces. In another couple of moves the Eagle could checkmate him and demand payment of the large wager they had made. He was about to move one of Richer’s pawns to a different square when the Baron hurried back.
‘Tom, you must come.’ He was breathless.
With stately languor Becket rose and strolled towards the audience hall, where he halted, dumbstruck. Before him was a creature of whom he’d heard rumours but whom he had never seen. It could have been the old Duke, the fabled Jeffroi le Bel, who on walking through a doorway silenced a hundred courtiers with his majestic presence – Henry’s father, the Duke of Normandy, most handsome man in Europe. He now stood before Becket in the flesh of a youth.
In the melodious intonation of one who spoke Angevin as his mother tongue, he said, ‘Chancellor, I am Willia
m of the House of Plantagenet. The King sends me.’
Becket gritted his teeth. It sometimes worked when a surprise brought back his stammer. ‘I-I-I … I’m surprised, my lord. I believed His Highness had no wish ever to see me again.’
‘My brother requests you cut short your visit to Baron de l’Aigle and return to court.’
Becket blurted, ‘Are you the tallest in your family?’
‘I am, Chancellor.’
Richer kicked Thomas’s ankle.
‘Forgive me for asking. I-I-I … I’m so astonished to see you. It’s like seeing a unicorn. One’s mind—’
‘Shut up!’ Richer hissed. He smiled at William. ‘My lord, you’ve had a long ride. Please accept dinner here.’
‘Thank you, but no. I am rather pressed for time.’
Richer, with Leo tucked in his armpit, turned to Becket. ‘Excuse us a moment.’ As soon as they were out of earshot he hissed, ‘You must return. This is your first battle against Henry, and you’ve won.’
‘He made no mention of restoring me to the familiares.’
‘He doesn’t have the authority. That belongs to the King.’
Beneath the dark pink velvet of his gown, Becket’s chest swelled. ‘My dear, I believe you’re right. I’ve beaten him!’
Richer handed Leo to the Chancellor. ‘Every time you stroke him, think “revenge”.’
They returned to their visitors. ‘Lord William, the eloquence of your coming in person in such unpleasant weather touches my heart,’ Becket said. ‘I’ll have my goods packed. I should be able to arrive the day after tomorrow.’
‘Surely you’ll now take dinner with us,’ Richer added.
‘Thank you, but I must decline. However, the kindness of your offer will not be forgotten.’
With solemn dignity, eleven men strode from the chateau to their waiting horses. Becket and Richer grabbed each other’s wrists to dance round and round, yelling with laughter. ‘And my letter about Henry begging me to return is already in Herbie’s hands! Like a chess game, all the pieces move into place for battle.’
‘You must take gifts. In my cellar are barrels of cider, apples, two smoked boars …’
In the Canterbury scriptorium, where all letters were first delivered, a snub-nosed scribe looked at the seal of Jupiter’s thunderbolt and smiled. Years earlier, when he was only a boy of eight, an older scribe, Richard, had taught him how to draw acanthus flowers. Later, Richard showed him how to draw foliage that, if turned sideways or upside down, became demons, serpents and the secret parts of men and women. He had also taught him how to break seals and mend them undetectably. The scribe made a copy of Becket’s letter before delivering the original to the scholars’ library. So many letters were sent daily from Canterbury to other parts of England and across the Narrow Sea that his, addressed to Rouen, went unremarked.
Towards dusk, Becket, accompanied by two of his knights, cantered to the palace while a packhorse plodded behind them. Henry stood in the iron-studded doorway, his arms spread wide, his square teeth gleaming. Becket felt his stomach knot. I won’t stammer, he told himself.
‘You scoundrel, Bec! Running off like that!’
‘H-H-Highness …’
‘Oh, Tom. Call me Henry. You’re home, aren’t you?’
I’ve defeated you! Becket exulted silently.
The monarch stood one step above him, looking over his shoulder. ‘Where are your goods and chattels?’
‘The w-w-wagon won’t arrive for a few days. Richer sends you two barrels of apples on the packhorse.’
The King gave a cursory glance at the animal, his attention on his Chancellor’s mud-spattered riding cloak, boots and robe. He noticed the lapdog. ‘What’s that thing?’
‘Adorable, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t like small dogs. They yap.’
‘Leo doesn’t utter a sound.’
Henry’s glance was baleful. ‘Do you have other clothes?’
‘Not yet.’
The King frowned. ‘Hamelin is only a finger knuckle taller than you. He’ll loan you something and we’ll have the tailor shorten it.’
‘Is there a banquet?’
‘Something more interesting than food awaits your skill, Tom-Tom.’
His pet name for me. I could die of happiness.
Henry turned and entered the palace and Hamelin strolled out to the top step. As he often did, he ran his hand through the fall of white hair over his blind eye, as if light might return its vision. He gave the Chancellor no smile of greeting, but observed him for a few moments in silence, then he too turned and walked indoors.
A sliver of ice ran down Becket’s spine. ‘We’ve always loathed each other,’ he confided to Leo, whom he wore in a bag slung across his shoulder.
There was no invitation to join the monarch for supper that evening. Henry ate in his private apartment with four French bishops and their deacons. The Chancellor caught a glimpse of them as they left, faces as long as donkeys’.
At first light, a page delivered the King’s orders. Accompanied by an escort of knights, the Chancellor was to go to the Rouen docks, where he would welcome an ambassador from Germany ‘and with utmost courtesy, conduct him to the palace’.
Thomas wore one of Hamelin’s dark green robes and a sumptuous pine-marten cloak. He left the knights outside to keep watch while he took refuge from the cold in a tavern, strolling to the doorway each time a bell rang to announce a ship was in sight. Dock workers rushed outside, struggling to be first to help secure and unload the vessel. Back in the warmth after their stint of work, they stared at Becket, elbowing each other. ‘Who are you, then?’ one called. When he replied that he was Lord Chancellor of England, the dockers demanded he buy them cups of cider.
Eventually a short, fur-wrapped personage appeared waddling from a barque, leaning on the arm of a tall young man. Behind them a groom led a roan stallion down the gangplank.
The envoy of the Emperor of Germany had arrived in Normandy.
All morning Thomas had practised in Latin, ‘Your Grace, I am Thomas, Chancellor of England and Archdeacon of Canterbury. With joy the King welcomes you to his Norman demesne.’
In Latin the envoy replied, ‘French is fine. I’m Rainald, Chancellor of Germany and Archbishop of Mainz.’ In the German fashion he had small rounds of metal attached to the inner heels of his shoes that, like leather shoes everywhere, resembled leather socks. He moved their backs together briskly with a clicking noise before he turned to his assistant with a curt nod. The tall young man lowered himself to the ground on hands and knees beside the stallion. His Eminence held out his elbow to be steadied by the groom and with unexpected sprightliness planted a boot in the centre of his assistant’s back. Once the envoy had mounted, his assistant stood, brushed himself down and turned to find his own horse.
Becket had already leaped to his mount with the help of a knight. The Normans set off at a trot towards the palace while a retinue of twenty imperial knights, their mounts caparisoned with the Emperor’s black double-headed eagle, scrambled to form an honour guard behind their master. Becket rode knee to knee with his German counterpart, who said, ‘I’m surprised to meet you, Chancellor. I believed you had left His Highness’s service.’
Becket turned lustrous eyes on his fur-hidden guest. ‘May I congratulate His Imperial Highness on the excellence of his—’
‘Ha ha! Our espionage network.’
‘You take the words from my tongue, Excellency. In this case, unfortunately, you’re mistaken. What you’ve heard is a lie spread by Parisian courtiers.’
‘Parisians! Vermin!’ The ambassador laughed loudly.
With deep tenderness Thomas added, ‘The King and I remain very close.’
At the palace, cooks prepared a welcome banquet. A little boy constantly basted two pigs roasting on a spit. Henry ran down to the kitchen. ‘Open the door so smoke wafts out to greet him,’ he ordered.
‘Cold air will chill the meat, sire.’
‘Fetch bellows and suck up smoke from above the pigs. When you hear our guards shouting at the gatehouse, a couple of you run to the side of the palace and puff it out.’ He retreated to his private audience hall.
It was Becket’s role to invite their visitor to enter. He arrived first at the locked doors, which he struck three times with the hilt of his sword. Guards dragged them open.
‘Excellency, welcome to the palace of Rouen.’
The ambassador reverted to German. ‘Lothar, give him our present.’
An enormous square iron cage covered in canvas was handed forward by the escort knights. From inside it came shuffling noises and an odious smell. Suddenly something thumped against the canvas. Becket braced himself to support the weight of the cage and its ominous captive.
‘May I conduct you to His Highness?’
The visitor roared with laughter as if this were another joke. ‘Why not! It’s him I come to see.’ He glanced around the entrance hall. ‘Not bad,’ he said. He turned suddenly to his assistant. ‘Lothar! Hold my arm. I still rock about as if I’m at sea. Three days!’ he added to Becket. ‘Three days on waves like this.’ His hand shot into the air, revealing a heavily muscled arm. ‘And take this fur off me, Lothar. I’m roasting like a chestnut.’ Released from his swaddling, the envoy was a man of incomparable ugliness of face and physique, with eyes as sharp as fish bones.
Henry remained seated at his desk for a few minutes as the ambassador was ushered into his private audience hall. Then he rose. Hamelin and William were already standing, and in a corner behind them, Little Geoffrey. The sight of three full-grown male Plantagenets made the envoy pause.
‘They told me but I didn’t believe it! Beautiful as pagan gods, they said.’
Henry stepped forward to embrace him. Hamelin and William bowed and kissed the ring he held out.
‘You’re the merlin, son of the Old Duke’s Spanish concubine. And you’re the youngest brother, Viscount William. But who is this wonderful child?’
‘My eldest son, Geoffrey.’
The ambassador beckoned the youngster forward and kissed his forehead. To everyone’s surprise he made the sign of the cross above Geoffrey’s head. ‘You are a special boy,’ he said. ‘Your mother, whose soul rests in peace, was from the Holy Land.’ His tone was confidential. ‘Now I rest a little. Then your Chancellor and I begin our work.’
The Lions' Torment Page 5