The Lions' Torment

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  He blew Becket a kiss as he backed towards the door. A fart escaped the Chancellor’s bottom. ‘How musical you are, Tom.’ Henry began laughing. ‘Play me another note.’

  He begins to love me again, Becket thought jubilantly. Soon we’ll be sitting at the chequered cloth, knee to knee. He’ll squeeze my thigh and say, ‘Stop! Give me the abacus. You do figures like a monkey tumbling in a cage.’ And he’ll kiss my lips.

  ‘Paris!’ he said aloud. ‘I’ll take Paris! And Canterbury next!’

  Learning that he was to leave for the Île-de-France in two days, and realising that on his return the Countess-in-hiding might have left Normandy, William asked for Henry’s help. ‘She’s seen me. But with my own eyes I must see her.’

  ‘Go to the chapel. She avoids the normal hours of prayer, entering without her maid as soon as it’s empty. She stays sometimes an hour, half an hour, twenty minutes. But always when Eleanor, Hamelin, you and I are dining and the priests are off stuffing their faces in the refectory. Tell Richard to guard the door.’

  As dark began to enfold the palace, William and Richard made their way to the chapel. A dozen beeswax candles had been left burning. Despite some glowing braziers, the incense-perfumed air was chill. Richard sauntered inside to check there was no priest lurking about in the shadows. He and William had spoken only half a dozen sentences to each other in their lives, but a liking had grown between the two youngest men at court. Richard was almost a year older than the King’s brother. As the King is my guardian, I feel as if I am yours, he thought.

  ‘All clear, my lord,’ he said.

  ‘Call me Willi. Everyone else does.’

  They withdrew to keep watch. After a few minutes, a black-clad figure glided along the corridor. William pressed a hand against his heart and, with the same silent tread he had learned from Henry and Hamelin, followed the mysterious creature into the chapel.

  She began to sing in Latin. He sank to his knees on a cushion behind the one on which she kneeled. Her sweet voice and slender dark form, the fragrance of incense, the rise and fall of the Latin prayer to the Virgin, all combined to overwhelm him with feelings of love. From his hours of practice with Hamelin, his voice was agile enough to sing without an instrument guiding it. He knew the prayer. As the Countess reached its final verse, he joined his singing to hers. She didn’t startle. There was a chorus. Their voices melted into each other’s.

  When the prayer ended, Isabel of Warenne reached behind her and with long, warm fingers took his outstretched hand. His heart burst into flame in his chest. His penis sprang towards his navel in a joyous rush that surged to the crown of his head. He was speechless. They held each other’s hand for days. For a moment. For eternity.

  At last he found his voice. ‘I could die of happiness,’ he murmured.

  Something as soft as swan’s down whispered, ‘I too, William. But I must leave.’

  He rose to help her to her feet. With bent head she vanished from the chapel.

  He still had not seen her face.

  A minute later, Richard sauntered forward. In the molten light of candle fire he saw tears drip from the Viscount’s cheeks.

  ‘Willi! Are you all right?’ A face of sunshine turned on him. In its radiance Richard felt his legs weaken, and inside his chest was a lump of lead. He feels love, he realised. Strong arms embraced him. Hot tears fell on his face.

  ‘You’re shaking, dear Richard. Are you all right?’

  ‘We missed supper. I’m hungry.’

  The following day, they set out for Paris.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They took an escort of forty elegantly mounted knights, riding east beside the Seine where the dead grass of winter was turning green and ducks with armadas of brown ducklings ventured out from the reeds along the river’s edge, making a V across the surface of the water. William felt his head was spinning. His pulse raced when he thought of Isabel’s hand in his. He experienced moments of faintness and at other times bursts of strength so intense he wanted to fight a dragon.

  He tried to concentrate as he rode beside the Chancellor, who refused to acknowledge the presence of Richard until they reached the palace of King Louis. There, in the grand audience hall, he introduced him as ‘my personal assistant’. But Louis’ eyes were only for William. He turned to remark to the prelate seated close to him, ‘All the natural blessings of that family: height, powerful limbs, undoubtedly acumen in war. He’ll be taller than his father when he’s full-grown.’ The eighteen-year-old noble stood with lowered eyes while Becket fell to his knees to kiss Louis’ satin-clad foot.

  ‘Forgive me, Great King,’ the Chancellor whispered. ‘Forgive me my sins in Quercy. They were mine alone. Mine is the torment. Mine the guilt. At night the victims of my crime scream inside my head, making sleep impossible. My lord Henry is enraged against me. He punished me for the excess of my zeal in Quercy. He banished me from court. Only my tears persuaded him to accept me back. But his punishment was insufficient. I beg you, Great King, punish me too.’ He laid his cheek against Louis’ instep. The King was undemonstrative by nature, and by policy reserved. But it gratified his vanity to observe these weaknesses in others. Becket had worked this out long ago.

  The monarch turned to the dark-robed, tonsured man on a chair slightly lower than the throne. In rapid, idiomatic Roman Latin he said, ‘I was told Henry expelled our man here for insubordination in Toulouse. The Chancellor insulted the King in front of his generals.’

  ‘That’s so. But we heard from the Bishop of Sens that on his return after the outrage at Quercy, all the Chancellor’s belongings and the man himself were transported from the palace of Rouen to the chateau of Bonsmoulins during a snowstorm.’

  ‘I don’t entirely trust the Bishop.’

  ‘In this case, you may.’

  ‘Our man here, having been so harshly treated by Henry, could become useful to us in future.’

  ‘Indeed, Highness. He’s ravenous with ambition.’

  ‘Raised in London’s gutter, it’s said. In finance. Or something.’

  Richard realised they were unaware he understood them.

  Louis looked into the beautiful eyes of his supplicant. ‘You may stand.’ The Chancellor rose. ‘The soul’s anguish is greater than physical torture, so I inflict no punishment on you.’ He glanced at William. ‘You may sit here beside me, young man.’

  When the Viscount was seated, Louis smiled. ‘How you resemble your father, a man remarkably attractive, and a great warrior. Born Count of Anjou but died Duke of Normandy, thanks to his sword.’ His tone was without rancour when he added, ‘My first wife fell wildly in love with him, but when he died, she ran off with your brother. Women are bewildering creatures, are they not, Viscount? In my long experience of her, I found Eleanor the most difficult of all her sex. She’s delightful, although I don’t envy your brother his spouse.’ William bowed his head without comment. Louis’ tone became smug. ‘My second wife is both docile and loving. She’ll soon bear me another child. God willing, a son.’

  ‘May you and the lovely Queen Constance be blessed with many sons, sire.’

  William’s open smile made Louis feel his solemnity a trifle overdone. He knew that Eleanor used to jest, ‘My husband regards smiling as a costly garment, to be worn only on great occasions.’ He stretched his lips sideways. ‘You Angevins! When the Almighty awarded gifts to each family, He gave the men of Anjou strength, beauty and charm. But to more serious matters: how is the situation in your county?’

  ‘Calm, sire. Last year’s harvests in Anjou and Maine were abundant. I have the local baronage under control. Relations with the Church are excellent. And I believe I’m collecting our due in taxes.’ He grinned. ‘Not that one can ever be certain.’

  Louis sighed. ‘Your brother, you know …’ He sighed again. ‘Henry and I could form the greatest alliance in Europe. If we joined forces, we could defeat Barbarossa and the riff-raff in Italy. We could remake the empire of Charlemagne.’

&nbs
p; William did the only thing he could think of: he crossed himself. ‘The joining of our two houses in the next generation should achieve exactly that. However, in the meantime, sire, I believe our Chancellor would like to address you once more. Concerning the Emperor of Germany.’

  The prelate beside the King was suddenly alert.

  Becket kneeled, but Louis ordered him to take a seat beside the churchman. Richard was told to sit on the floor. ‘Highness, the complication is this,’ the Chancellor began. His Latin was so poorly enunciated, Richard was about to repeat the statement correctly when Louis intervened.

  ‘Speak French.’

  ‘And speak up,’ the prelate said. ‘I’m hard of hearing.’

  ‘The complication is that Pope Alexander has angered Barbarossa by forming an alliance with the King of Sicily, a monarch of courage and military skill.’

  ‘The King of Sicily is a Norman,’ Louis said. ‘A descendant of Vikings, like Henry.’

  ‘Indeed, but Sicily is close to the southern region of Italy. As a Norman, the Sicilian king shows the maritime daring of his ancestors. His navy is enviable. He could transport thousands of men to Rome in just a few days. Pope Alexander has further alarmed Barbarossa by making alliance with the Lombardis in the northern cities of Italy. He has been most intelligent in his tactics, as one would expect from a man as blessed as our Pope.’ He paused to watch the effect of his words on the prelate. ‘My liege told Barbarossa’s envoy, “What use is your pope to the Emperor if his empire is in flames?” The ambassador was greatly persuaded when my liege added that he believed, with your goodwill, France and England could persuade the Holy Father, Pope Alexander, to move away from these alliances. He asked me to tell you, Highness, that if Barbarossa is convinced he faces no threat in Italy, he will forgo an attack against France.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Louis showed no emotion but for the sarcasm of his tone.

  Richard knew the ambassador had not suggested an attack by Germany on France over the question of the rightful pope. Bec is shifting the blame away from Barbarossa. An adroit move.

  The prelate spoke rapidly to Louis in complex Latin. ‘Henry is weak at the moment. He has no gold for a war. Now, Lord King, is the moment to attack him.’ Louis nodded.

  ‘But what of this marriage alliance?’ he asked the Chancellor.

  Becket gave a disarming smile. ‘Highness, it was a gesture of reassurance. There is no boy for the English princess to marry. There may never be. It was simply …’ He fluttered his jewelled fingers. ‘Of much greater significance is the ancient gem the Empress Matilda sent to Barbarossa. She knew its history. I myself was present when she named the many noble hands that, over the centuries, have possessed that marvel that once belonged to Queen Cleopatra.’

  ‘Cleopatra?’ Louis raised an eyebrow. ‘Little surprise Red Beard wanted it returned.’

  Becket dropped his voice so the prelate had to crane his neck to hear. ‘The Empress did not mention that the Egyptian queen put a curse on it.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ the prelate murmured to Louis.

  ‘He. Or the Empress. Henry learned cunning at her knee.’

  While he waited in Rouen for news of his embassy to Paris, it came to Henry’s ear that two cardinal legates were in the duchy. He invited them to dine with him. Although his Chancellor was at that very moment committing the House of Plantagenet to the support of Pope Alexander, Henry took the opportunity the legates seemed to offer. They discussed the virtues of Alexander and the dangers of the times in which they lived, when at any moment the Day of Judgement could arrive and sweep away all living creatures. At the end of dinner, the Duke-King invited his guests to join him and Hamelin for chess in his private study. The brothers easily beat the cardinals. Henry chuckled, ‘Eminences, I believe you played to lose.’

  ‘On the contrary, we tried to win!’ the older man objected.

  Henry nodded, smiling. ‘Chess is a war game and it’s true my brother and I excel in it, for we are men of war. A king is ordained to shed blood, is he not?’

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘Much blood has been shed by both King Louis and myself, especially in the lands around Normandy. I fear our battles hasten the coming of the End of Days.’ He waited, watching the puzzlement in their faces. ‘I would be more inclined to support Pope Alexander against Barbarossa’s man if I were assured that my House of Plantagenet and Louis’ House of Capet could be joined by the marriage of our children. This, I believe, would help dissipate the gathering storm clouds.’ He sighed and crossed himself. ‘The children are already affianced.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Both young. But if Your Eminences would waive the age at which royal children may be married, I would most certainly throw my might behind Pope Alexander.’ He clapped a hand over his heart.

  The cardinals glanced at each other. ‘May we confer?’ They drew aside for a discussion before returning, smiling, to the chess tables. ‘We are empowered to give permission, and do so,’ the elder said.

  Henry nodded solemnly. ‘I believe you have given hope to all of Christendom. A decision of such importance, however, must have the dignity of writing, must it not?’

  He summoned a scribe, who at their dictation made a wax notation then hurried off to write up the cardinals’ proclamation on fine vellum while the four men played another game of chess. This time, Henry deliberately lost.

  ‘You see!’ he cried. ‘Your graciousness humbles me.’

  Once their letter was signed and waxed, the cardinals left in good spirits, congratulating themselves on securing for Alexander the support of a king who was an emperor in all but name.

  Hamelin said, ‘Louis will never completely trust you after Toulouse. When Alexander discovers you tricked his legates, he’ll feel the same.’

  Henry shrugged. ‘I can now take back the Norman Vexin because it’s Princess Marguerite’s dowry. Once I have it, Louis can’t defeat me. I can return to England and begin my great work of bringing the Church to heel.’

  He opened the secret drawer in his writing desk and withdrew a second letter from Theobald, brought by post rider a few days earlier. It restated the Archbishop’s desire to have Becket as his successor. Hamelin glanced at both letters. ‘I wondered when you’d show me you had two.’

  ‘Swine! You knew?’

  Hamelin, stretched on a couch, stared at the ceiling. ‘The second is a forgery, written by supporters of the Chancellor.’

  Henry snorted. ‘I’ve promised Eleanor I won’t allow Bec to be elected. We’ve indulged him enough by allowing him to raise the Crown Prince. I believe his craving for recognition and honours is satisfied.’

  Hamelin said, ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Explain yourself, brother.’

  ‘That man is a battleground in whom opposing forces advance and retreat. He feels himself weak and vulnerable, but at the same time he possesses the determination to overpower the most powerful.’

  ‘You’re as irritating as my wife. Have your invisible friends been talking to her as well?’

  ‘Perhaps. They only tell me what I need to know.’

  ‘And at this moment, what is that?’

  Hamelin lay silent, staring at the ceiling. ‘I was shown a summer sky filled with lightning. Its fires danced and flashed all night, but there was no sound of thunder.’

  ‘A storm in the distance?’ Henry’s expression was thoughtful. ‘That could refer to anything or anybody. Why do you bring Becket into it?’

  ‘Because he was standing in the sky.’

  The King threw up his hands. ‘Mad visions! You know what you need, brother? You need a quinny of flesh to enjoy. Not that wraith with whom you claim to have congress each night.’

  Hamelin leaped from the couch with the speed of a leopard. ‘Never refer to my beloved as “that wraith”. She warned us of the ambush in Eulowe Forest, knowing it would cost her her life. Alaw was as brave as the most chivalrous knight. Neither you nor I would be a
live were it not for her self-sacrifice.’ He strode from the royal presence.

  Becket, William, Richard and their knights left Paris in triumph. Richard told the Chancellor, ‘Louis said, “Fighting Henry is hell enough. I don’t want that giant younger brother and the merlin he has at court at my throat as well. Barbarossa to my east and south. Henry to my west. His cousin the Count of Flanders to the north … To sit on the throne of France is a nightmare.”’

  ‘What about his talk of a great alliance?’ William asked.

  ‘I suspect that Louis, once so naïve, is now almost as wily as our King.’ Richard itched to tell William that the King of France saw in England’s Chancellor a potential weapon against Henry. And that the French prelate had urged Louis to attack Henry while he was weak.

  Becket’s cold voice broke in. ‘What language did His Highness speak?’

  ‘A form of Latin used only in the Vatican. That churchman was a cardinal, despite the brown robe he wore. Louis addressed him as “Your Eminence”.’

  ‘We are clever,’ Thomas sneered. He had negotiated the agreement: Henry would support Louis’ man as pope, but secretly, so as not to arouse the immediate ire of Germany. The brown-robed prelate would personally take this message to the Pontiff, currently domiciled in an abbey on the outskirts of Paris.

  Suddenly Becket swung to look into Richard’s face. In English, a language William did not understand, he demanded, ‘After what I’ve just achieved, do you imagine I’ll not soon lie in the bosom of the King, slut?’

  ‘Ask your fucking pet rat. Lapdog.’

  The back of Becket’s hand caught Richard full on the mouth. A trickle of blood oozed from his swelling lower lip.

  ‘Wipe your face.’

  ‘I’d prefer the Viscount witness your real nature, Bec.’

  William had seen the blow from the corner of his eye and glowered at the Chancellor.