The Lions' Torment

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  ‘I suspect they worship the elm.’

  Henry grinned. ‘Probably. Paganism has deeper roots than Christianity in all my lands.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘You could cut it down.’ Louis laughed but realised his mistake too late. The English King’s face became expressionless as he felt the cool breath of the Guardian against his cheek. Louis shivered. ‘A poor jest. It will never be cut, my dear!’

  They seated themselves on the ground, leaning back on the trunk. Louis offered Henry a draught of wine from his flask. Henry accepted and offered Louis his. Most wine was no stronger than small ale and could be drunk at breakfast. But Henry’s was from Aquitaine and unusually strong.

  ‘Well, you outwitted me in Toulouse,’ he said.

  Louis tittered. ‘It was the women’s idea for me to stay there, doing nothing. My sister’s and my wife’s.’

  ‘Women!’ Henry exclaimed. He had known for months whom to blame for the fiasco in Toulouse, a county he could have won and thus extended his empire to the Middle Sea. His wealth would have doubled, his trade would have stretched from Ireland to Italy. Feudal honour, cunningly manipulated, had defeated him. ‘However, they give us sons and daughters. You’re to become a father again in the autumn, Louis.’

  ‘May God give me a son at last. An heir for France. And you, Henry? More children on the way?’

  ‘My Queen has been disinclined to receive me this year.’ Henry turned to glance into Louis’ gentle eyes. After a moment they both gusted with laughter. ‘Eleanor, Eleanor. Why did I marry a duke instead of a duchess?’

  ‘Same reason I had to. Her money!’ Louis found his own remark so humorous he grabbed the Aquitaine wine flask again.

  Henry sensed Louis’ thought: She’ll betray you too. He bent to the French King’s ear. ‘I do believe, brother, that a person of great magnificence is over there, behind your knights. I’ve noticed how they move their horses so whoever is behind them remains hidden.’

  ‘My courtiers say that nothing escapes your eye.’

  They stood. ‘I’ll hold his stirrup,’ Henry said. Such service from a king to anyone but his queen was an unexpected display of chivalry – and humility. I wish I’d thought of that, Louis reproached himself.

  Henry’s bishops had warned him, ‘The Holy Father is an aristocrat of ancient lineage. He’s a lawyer who possesses both clarity of mind and refinement of judgement. Of such sophistication is his diplomacy he can make conflicting promises without a blink.’

  At a signal from Louis, the knights stepped their mounts aside and the Pope’s white stallion, each hoof lifted with stately pride, walked towards the elm. Henry quickly spread his satin riding cloak on the ground so the feet of the High Priest of Christendom would not touch earth.

  ‘Holy Father, does it please you to dismount?’ He held the stirrup and with his other hand steadied the Pope’s arm. Alexander was smooth-skinned and smelled of the essence of violets. Henry felt suddenly eager to make a favourable impression. ‘Holy Father, you are the True Pope of Christendom!’

  ‘Thank you, my son. You were most gracious to my cardinal legates when they dined with you in Rouen.’ His expression gave no hint of annoyance.

  ‘I wished to reinforce what my Chancellor was telling King Louis.’

  The King of France looked puzzled. Alexander turned to him. ‘You were not informed? The royal children may be married at a convenient time. Nothing more.’

  Henry cut in, ‘Holy Father, I and all my vassals on both sides of the Narrow Sea accept you as True Pope. There’s no need to rouse the King of Sicily or the men of Lombardy to war. Barbarossa’s puppet may sit in Rome, but few will heed him, while you, domiciled in France, lead Christendom.’ He bunched his fist. Muscles jumped inside his silken sleeve. ‘My sword, Holiness, is at your command.’

  Alexander coloured slightly. ‘I’ll not forget this moment.’ He made the sign of the cross, stretching his hand above Henry’s head, lowering it to the centre of his forehead, then to his throat and heart. ‘Live with my blessing and gratitude.’

  Becket, watching from the end of a row of knights, felt his body weaken. Blessed by the Pope! What hope have I against such puissance?

  Henry joined his fingers for the Pontiff to use as a mounting stool, and His Holiness swung up onto his tall white horse. The kings kissed again, then Henry shook out his riding cloak and almost skipped back to his waiting escort.

  ‘Papa, you were very clever to spread your cloak on the ground. I could see King Louis wished he’d thought of it first,’ Little Geoffrey said.

  ‘You learn kingcraft, chouchou.’

  Becket interjected. ‘What wisdom in the boy! Sire, your heart must take great comfort in him.’

  Henry ruffled his son’s black curls. ‘I love him as much as I loved his mother.’

  He loves him best, Becket thought angrily.

  They turned their horses west, but Henry looked back. The King of France and the Pontiff rode knee-to-knee, deep in conversation.

  ‘That Sienese is as slippery as an eel, but I have an instinct to trust him. He’s a man of deep understanding. He has a sense of honour. But Louis …’

  William said, ‘You and Louis can trust each other only to the exact degree of dishonesty you know to expect.’

  ‘Brother! You have become a philosopher?’

  The Viscount seemed abashed.

  ‘Love!’ Henry shouted. ‘A young man grown wise through the struggles of his heart.’ He pealed with laughter.

  ‘Another two years,’ William muttered.

  Becket, who rode on the other side of the King, asked, ‘What is it you wait two years for, my lord?’

  ‘Isabel de Warenne.’ Henry slapped the Viscount’s back. ‘You’ll only be twenty, darling.’ His interest in the topic was exhausted and his thoughts returned to politics. He addressed the Chancellor. ‘Question is, Bec, when Louis and I are once again in dispute, which of us will Alexander favour?’

  ‘As ever, sire, your strategic foresight is remarkable.’

  ‘And as ever, Chancellor, your flattery amuses me.’ Henry burst into song. The voices of forty men joined him and he turned to shout, ‘We’ll celebrate tonight!’ A loud cheer went up that William Plantagenet did not join in with.

  ‘You’re not a happy participant in the entertainment, my lord?’

  The flash from the young man’s eyes made Becket recoil.

  That evening, Becket wrote to Herbert of Bosham instructing him to research the de Warenne family and discover if there were any blood connection to the Plantagenets. You personally, my love, he wrote. No other eyes should see the documents, nor ears hear of your endeavour.

  It was another of his letters that Richard intercepted, copied, resealed and handed to a post rider. He placed it beside a recent one from Herbert to the Chancellor that said: Our Archbishop has gone mad. He now raves and talks to angels. He says they tell him you are to succeed him on the throne of Canterbury. In fact, my pig-nosed friend in the scriptorium confided that Our dear Theobald wrote months ago to your Beast beseeching him to arrange your election. Herbie added sardonically: Beloved Thomas, I myself begin to believe that the angels, in conclave, have chosen you!

  Next morning, news arrived that Theobald no longer suffered. Henry spent the day in his private chamber, fasting and weeping.

  Becket sent a page with a note: May I comfort you, Henry? The boy returned with a shake of his head.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Thomas had given Herbert of Bosham clear instructions about the Eucharistic feast that would replace grief-fasting for Archbishop Theobald. Benedictines were forbidden to eat the flesh of animals with four legs, but the monks can enjoy pheasant, duck and chicken as well as fish, he wrote. Neither is honey forbidden. His scholarly friend followed the instructions to the letter, including an announcement at the beginning of the celebration: ‘Archdeacon Becket provides this bounteous meal today that all may benefit and recall with joy the triumphs of our beloved T
heobald while on earth, before we turn our minds to his radiant presence now in heaven.’

  Herbert’s Latin was excellent and his voice strong. The Eucharistic bread and wine was of the finest quality. Praise for the departed’s virtues went on until sunset. Every English bishop, except a couple of elderly ones too frail to travel, was present, Gilbert Foliot seated in the place of honour beside Theobald’s empty throne. He waved away the fish and fowl, accepting only vegetables, his ascetic features containing his disgust at the odour of cooked flesh.

  ‘What’s Tom up to?’ he asked the Archbishop of York, who, like Foliot, had known Becket for almost two decades.

  ‘I’ve been wondering myself,’ Roger de Pont L’Évêque answered. ‘This feast for monks is out of character.’

  ‘I suspect he has a favourite to replace Theobald and at this very moment is pandering to the King to win royal support.’

  ‘But who?’

  ‘Some non-entity of a bishop who will reward our Tom for ever afterwards with gratitude.’ Both men looked along the benches of the dining hall. ‘There are half a dozen I’ve never spoken to,’ Foliot added. ‘Those two are getting drunk.’

  ‘That won’t endear them to the monks.’

  ‘So perhaps it’s not one of them, or neither has been told he is the mighty Becket’s chosen man.’

  Foliot and Pont L’Évêque exchanged glances. ‘The power behind the archiepiscopal throne,’ York murmured.

  ‘And the throne of England,’ Foliot added. ‘The King has agreed the Crown Prince may be raised in his household.’

  ‘I was unaware.’

  ‘Oh yes. Our Tom is a busy man when it comes to his own advancement.’

  The Archbishop of York smiled bitterly. ‘If he’d been doing his duties here for the past few years, instead of galloping around battlefields in France, up to his elbows in gore, perhaps our English troubles would be fewer. I have increasing problems in my see. Many priests are out of hand. I’ve had to arrest a few to calm the fury of the faithful.’

  Foliot crossed himself. ‘Their crimes?’

  ‘The usual. Theft, extortion, rape.’

  ‘You put them on trial?’

  ‘Gilbert, even a trial behind closed doors is kicking a hornet’s nest. Word leaks out. The populace are so frightened about the Day of Judgement, they’re likely to decide the trial of a priest is a sign. In panic, they may do anything.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So when the situation calms, I move the guilty ones on. I’ve been forced into some unusual alliances with brother bishops.’

  Foliot suppressed a smile. Years earlier, when Roger and Tom were both Canterbury deacons, Pont L’Évêque had been forced – ‘for the good name of the Church’, he’d asserted – to have a boy’s eyes put out. The lad was later murdered. At that time Roger had not taken holy vows, although he could claim benefit of clergy, albeit speciously. Foliot, in discussion with Theobald, had given thought to his case and decided not to send the young deacon to the King’s court, especially since Roger’s dearest friend, Thomas Becket, had pleaded his case with the Archbishop and even petitioned Rome. Since then, the two had fallen out.

  York interrupted his thoughts. ‘Are your faithful in terror of the End of Days?’

  ‘In Hereford the faithful are more terrified by Welsh cattle thieves. I’ve ordered my priests to assure their congregations that if their lives are pure, they have nothing to fear from heaven.’

  His brother bishop touched the rim of his gold goblet to Foliot’s. ‘I might try that.’

  ‘It’s expensive,’ Foliot noted drily. ‘They pull their purse strings tight when they don’t cringe at the wrath of God.’

  They sipped the Eucharist wine in silence for a while.

  ‘I’d love to work out who Thomas has his eye on,’ Pont L’Évêque said eventually. ‘He once borrowed a lot of money from Winchester. It couldn’t be him, could it?’

  ‘Over Henry’s dead body. Winchester is of the clan of Blois. The blood feud with Anjou stretches generations. Not to mention that Winchester’s brother was our unlamented last king.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ York’s gaze again swept along the bishops’ table. ‘Could it be someone from Henry’s domains in France?’

  ‘That would be …’ Foliot paused to consider the correct word, but could think of none more suitable than ‘confusing’.

  York said with sudden fervour, ‘It must be you, Gilbert. Every man I’ve spoken to agrees you are the proper choice.’ He wanted to add: Why don’t you go to the monks’ bench and congratulate one or two of them on their fine speeches about Theobald? But he understood Foliot well enough to know he would consider it dishonourable to curry favour with the men who would elect the next Archbishop. Instead, he went himself. He returned slightly abashed. Several monks had remarked on the generosity of Archdeacon Becket in providing the lavish feast, and the fact that since his visit a few weeks earlier, their bread was no longer stale.

  Herbert of Bosham’s night was spent in writing up for his mentor the Eucharist’s success. Some monks had said, ‘We wish the King would allow Thomas to return to us.’ Becket had ordered Herbie to write himself, not trusting the scriptorium. He read the letter lying in bed, morning light streaming through his open window. ‘They begin to blame Henry for the problems of the Church,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Heaven smiles on me.’ Summer crops ripened and swords slept throughout the domains of Louis and Henry. War stallions gambolled in fields thick with clover, frolicking with their harems of mares. Young men tourneyed. Henry summoned his English bishops and those from his continental domains for ecclesiastical councils, where he announced that he and the King of France were ad idem in recognising Alexander as Pope. The prelates twirled their capes above their heads in a flapping of dark red wings. The final council greeted news of the new Pope with shouts of ‘Hallelujah!’

  Summer was drawing to a close allowing all to feel as if the Day of Judgement had been delayed for at least another year. The throne of the Archbishop of Canterbury stood empty, and the King was in no hurry to see it filled. ‘England’s bishops have taken new heart now they are clear about who is the Pope. Canterbury can remain vacant awhile. I need the right man.’

  Becket laughed. ‘Perhaps I should be tonsured, Henry, and take vows of celibacy.’

  The King grinned. ‘Celibate? That day, Bec …’ He didn’t bother to finish the sentence. He had read the letters between Becket and Herbert of Bosham that Richard had collected. ‘As I said, I need the right man, and I need the rent I collect from Canterbury.’

  Becket pondered. Maybe he’s refused to return me to the familiares because he thinks he could not propose me as Archbishop if I’m part of the royal family. He’d be accused of usurping the power of the Church. He withdrew, smiling.

  ‘Treachery and betrayal,’ Henry remarked to Hamelin.

  The merlin replied, ‘Admit it, brother, his perfidy has wounded you deeply. Until you read those letters, you believed your friendship was restored after his success with the German.’

  The King turned on him, red with anger. ‘Sometimes bullfrogs should keep their ugly mouths shut.’

  The Chancellor was unable to sleep. At night he made lists of all the bishops His Highness might propose. He wrote to Herbert asking for the view of the monks. Again and again the name Gilbert Foliot was at the top of the list. I’ll do anything to prove to the Beast that I’m worthy, thought Becket. And that very night his fortunes changed.

  One of his many spies – his ‘little friends with busy little tongues’ – called on him, a groom from the royal stables in Paris. King Louis, he reported, was furious that Henry had tricked the cardinals who had visited him into allowing marriage of the royal children at any time he chose. ‘He consults with senior officials about breaking their engagement.’

  The weather was so pleasant by the afternoon the court set out for hunting in south-west Normandy. After an invigorating day of sport they returned to a sparsely fu
rnished chateau to bathe and eat. Henry’s glance flicked to Becket. ‘Share my tub, Chancellor?’ His eyes twinkled. ‘You’ve not bathed with me before, have you?’

  ‘Y-y-you tease me!’ There was a touch of coquetry in Becket’s voice.

  ‘I? Tease you? Never! You were the victor today. Your birds took more game than mine.’

  Becket flushed. ‘I believe, sire, the honour of sharing your bath should go to your brother, Hamelin.’

  Henry was holding up his arms for a page to undress him. ‘You hunted like Orion. One day you’ll be placed as a star among the gods.’

  Soon he was naked, his linen hunting clothes in a pile at his feet. Becket averted his gaze. My heart lurches like a drunk. He raised his chin. ‘Among Englishmen it is not the custom to be so physically …’ he hesitated, ‘open with each other.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Henry stretched his shoulders and bent to touch his toes. ‘They bathe together all the time. If they bathe at all, that is.’

  He’s testing me, Becket thought. ‘Actually, Henry, there’s something of great importance I need to tell you, but I don’t believe a bathtub to be the appropriate place.’

  The monarch’s jovial mood did not flag. ‘All right, all right. Bathe in cold water, if you like. Tell Hamelin to hop in with me, though I hate bathing with him. He splashes.’

  Moments after the Chancellor left, Hamelin strolled through the door, a linen towel around his hips, his hair flowing over his shoulders almost to his waist. His beard was trimmed short, a sign among merlins that he had been made, not born.

  ‘Becket has something important to tell me,’ Henry said.

  ‘You must fetch the Crown Prince from England.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘I can’t. The guides show me scenes and you know they never give explanations. I saw the Crown Prince and his little fiancée sailing for Normandy with your wife, and some very fine clothes.’

  At supper, Henry seated Becket at his right hand. The Chancellor had recovered from the turmoil of seeing the King naked. I’m cured, he thought. Like a human being, love is born, it grows and it dies. My adoration is dead. His magic has no power over me. Before the meal, he had prayed for strength of purpose. Now the trenchers were cleared away and a platter of ripe fruit was served.