Hamelin paid no attention. He replied in a dreamy rumble, ‘Your mother raised you to be a great king. She was harsh, but she succeeded. You are a great king. But you have another destiny. A higher one.’
He was silent as his brother’s stern, commanding features momentarily crumpled. When he composed himself, it was with a bitter smile.
‘Haven’t your unseen companions whispered to you the curse of kings, Hamelin?’ Henry drained his cup and flung it over his shoulder to smash on the flagstones. ‘One must do evil to prevent greater evil. Is that not the melancholy truth of a crown?’
The merlin nodded.
‘This marriage of the royal children will be a scandal.’
‘Indeed. I see your name turn black.’
‘And then?’
Hamelin shook his head, but whether he saw no more or refused to reveal his vision was impossible to say.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Henry’s order that Becket was to arrange the marriage of the royal children horrified the Chancellor. As he confided to his lapdog, ‘If the monks hear of this, they’ll despise me.’
Leo stared into his face, his baby eyes open wide. Abruptly he jumped to the ground, ran to a corner and peed.
‘Naughty boy!’ Thomas suddenly began to smile. If the wedding proves embarrassing, he thought, I can deflect the monks’ disgust onto His Highness. That is, Herbie and the Adorables will do so for me.
Eleanor was at Windsor, where William arrived a day after landing in England. She listened before replying, ‘Louis made it a condition that I must have nothing to do with Princess Marguerite. Henry told him, “I’ll place your precious daughter in the household of a knight who does the English Crown essential service” – and gave her to his brothel master, Ranulf de Broc.’
When she and her brother-in-law had stopped laughing, William said, ‘Sister, Hamelin says Louis has changed. He’s now hardened into kingship.’
‘You heard him say it?’
‘Several times. Henry refuses to listen.’
‘If what Hamelin says is correct, your brother will soon be in need of money for war. I’ll gladly cross the sea myself.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘With a lady companion.’
William pressed her hand against his chest, standing close enough for Eleanor to ruffle his hair. Your father’s hair used to fall between my open lips.
After the funeral for Queen Constance in the cathedral of St Denis, England’s Crown Prince, aged five years and eight months, kneeled before his future father-in-law and in perfect Latin paid homage to Louis for the province of Normandy that he would inherit when Henry deemed him worthy. The monarch, distracted by the obsequies for his dead wife and excited by what would soon transpire with his new one, placed long, cold hands around the child’s plump paws. ‘Arise, Young Duke.’ He lifted his two-and-a-half-year-old daughter onto his lap.
‘Papa, why are those men hiding Mama underground?’
‘That is just someone who looks like her. Mama is with God, Marguerite, joyous with prayer.’
A few weeks later, the King of France himself was hilarious with joy and rather too much wedding mead when he took the spirited Adela to bed. ‘We’re making an heir for France!’ he exulted as he rode his twenty-year-old virgin bride.
The following afternoon, he announced that his daughters by Eleanor were affianced to his new brothers-in-law, younger siblings of Count Theobald of Blois. The Blois clan were now not only Louis’ vassals, they were woven into the royal family of France.
‘Henry will be shouting with rage,’ Louis laughed to Adela. ‘Blois outdoes Anjou at last.’
The new Queen’s expression was avid. ‘My ancestors built Chaumont-sur-Loire to guard us against the Black Falcon. One of his wives was a witch.’
‘And one of his descendants is Henry Plantagenet.’
‘Husband, I know that.’
‘Of course, dear child. The campaign season is over for this year. By next year we’ll be well prepared to defend your territory. Our territory,’ he corrected himself. Louis was so pleased he repeated, ‘Henry will be shouting with rage.’
Henry was not shouting with rage. He was closeted in Rouen with two hard-faced Templar Knights, Richard of Hastings and Hostes of St Omer. Thomas Becket was also present as the Templars, white-clad, with large, splayed red crosses over their chests, read once again the contract that affianced the royal children of England and France. Richard the Lout hovered in the background, staying as far from the Chancellor as he could.
‘It says nothing about when they’re to be married,’ Henry said.
‘We would like to see the letter from the cardinals giving dispensation for the children to wed whenever it seems necessary,’ Hostes replied.
The King nodded to Becket, who handed over a delicate white vellum scroll. Both knights read it, their faces grim.
‘You find a problem with the decision from the legates?’ Henry asked.
Hostes’ chiselled features barely moved as he spoke. ‘None. I believe our problem is with King Louis.’
Henry waved his hand airily. ‘Louis lacks imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge, but a king needs both. Louis believed when this marriage contract was drawn up that the children would marry at a normal age. Now, my dear Templars, at what point in the ceremony will you hand me the keys to the Vexin castles?’
‘As soon as the blessing is given.’
Henry smiled. ‘Excellent. I believe Louis’ rage with you for handing over the Vexin will be futile. I give you refuge in England. On the day of the wedding, ships will await you and your brother knights at Rouen docks.’
‘And if Louis has us charged with treason and demands you return us to France for trial?’ Hostes asked.
‘I’ve no idea where you are. Sicily, perhaps? My Chancellor made the arrangements about the Vexin castles, didn’t you, Bec?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘All is legal and in order. The marriage will take place in two weeks.’
The pair bowed slightly before Richard escorted them from the interview. When the door closed, Henry leaped up, grabbed Becket’s wrists and began to dance a jig. ‘They’re laden with gold! I’ve wanted Templars in England for years. Trade will flourish. Our merchants will rejoice. How obliging Louis is.’ He twirled the Chancellor around three times, then sat down. ‘No word of this will pass outside these walls,’ he added. ‘I don’t want them murdered before I have the keys.’
‘Mighty King,’ Becket murmured, ‘may I kiss the hem of your robe?’
Two hundred courtiers had attended the royal wedding in Paris. A week later, Becket oversaw the flowers and altar cloths in an insignificant chapel outside Rouen that he had chosen for the marriage of the royal children.
While her nurse fussed over Marguerite’s dress, the Chancellor kneeled in front of her. ‘Highness, it’s the English custom for a bride to drink some honey on her wedding day,’ he said. He held out a tiny gold cup to the French Princess, who sipped from it and screwed up her nose.
Soon afterwards, Henry stood with the wedding couple, a hand on his son’s shoulder, the bride perched on his hip. The only witnesses were Becket, Viscount William Plantagenet and Richard the Lout. The officiating bishop, offended at being ordered to appear in such humble surroundings, droned from St Paul’s Letter to the Corinthians. Princess Marguerite whispered, ‘I need to poo!’
Henry cleared his throat. ‘Your Grace, our bride asks if she may be excused as a matter of urgency.’
A nurse carried the squirming child behind a curtain. Those inside the chapel heard her whine, ‘Where’s potty?’ and her nurse scolding, ‘You went this morning, as soon as you woke up.’
‘Potty!’ the child yelled.
The bridegroom giggled. Henry bent to his son’s ear. ‘Do you need to make pee-pee?’ The prince shook his head.
The chapel fell silent while from behind the curtain came sounds of potty and the nurse threatening the bride. Henry, red with anger, took advantag
e of the interruption to stroll outside. Five Templars, white gowns and long swords hidden beneath dark cloaks, paced slowly back and forth, glancing every so often through the open door. After a few minutes, Marguerite came running back to clasp the hand of her prince. ‘I did a WET one,’ she announced.
The prelate’s eye met Henry’s. ‘Highness, may we continue?’
‘Skip Corinthians. Here are the rings. Put them on their fingers and give the blessing.’
The churchmen turned their backs to prepare the body and blood of Christ. ‘Disgraceful,’ the bishop muttered to his deacon. ‘Small children should never be allowed on sacred land unless inside a coffin.’
‘I need to poo again,’ Marguerite piped.
Becket stood with hands clasped behind his back and lowered eyes, mentally composing the letter he would write to Herbie. Marguerite returned weeping from her nurse’s slap. Henry glared at her before he forced himself to smile and kiss her cheek. ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart,’ he whispered. ‘Today is for happiness.’
The moment the bishop slid the rings onto the children’s tiny fingers, Henry strode out, leaving the newlyweds to their nurses and the Chancellor, who lifted Leo from his shoulder bag. The groom gasped with delight when the lapdog licked his hand.
‘Darling child, in my household you can play with him all day,’ Becket said. ‘He loves you already. He wants to kiss you again.’
Outside, the father of the groom faced the Knights Templar. ‘Good sirs,’ he said. In silence, Richard of Hastings and Hostes of St Omer handed over three sets of massive keys. ‘The tide will be high for sailing by the time you reach the wharves.’
A faint smile crossed Hostes’ granite features. ‘And you, Lord Duke? When do you plan to sail?’
Henry grinned. ‘As soon as I’ve settled some matters on this side of the Narrow Sea.’
‘The fighting season is over,’ the Templar remarked.
The Duke of Normandy bent to his ear. ‘It’s never over, Hostes.’
The wedding breakfast for the children was held in the palace of Rouen. Eleanor officiated. She seated herself between the Countess of Surrey and the bishop, who glared at Becket. The Chancellor ignored him. With delicate fingers the bride fed her husband little pieces of cake and a boiled egg, from time to time becoming so overwhelmed with affection she covered his cheeks with kisses. But abruptly her face was stricken with fright. Eleanor turned her head away. ‘Nurse!’
Everyone pretended not to have noticed that the child had soiled herself; everyone except Becket, who whispered to the Crown Prince, ‘Oooh aaah!’ They giggled together.
‘An unusual union, Your Highness,’ the prelate remarked.
The Queen responded with a regal smile. ‘To join England and France, as you have done today, equals in significance the Battle of Hastings, Your Grace. Such things happen only once in centuries.’ What she meant, what Henry understood, and what sophisticated courtiers understood, was that through the marriage of children, the crown of France would fall into the lap of the House of Plantagenet – as long as Louis sired no heir.
‘I’m honoured to have been the instrument of such a momentous event.’ Nobody had yet remarked that the father of the groom had disappeared. ‘If I may be so bold as to mention it, my English clerical brothers wish His Highness would return to the realm.’
Eleanor replied coolly. ‘The situation in France is unusual: a dead queen, then suddenly a new queen. My husband can’t leave for England until his mind is at rest about the situation here. However, he is eager to return as soon as possible, for he’s most concerned by the English church.’ She turned to gaze at the Crown Prince, who was nuzzling his little bride. ‘There is gross misbehaviour among some clergy.’
‘Rumours, surely.’
‘No, Your Grace. Crimes. The situation is complicated by a great unsolved problem. Two virtually independent powers with interdependent hierarchies, jurisdictions, courts, finances and properties exist side by side. There is constant tension, especially when the question of clerical misbehaviour arises. Sometimes I think we need a Solomon in England.’
‘Your husband’s acceptance of Alexander as True Pope has delighted England’s bishops, I hear.’
‘You hear a great deal. Do your English brothers communicate their wishes for the next Archbishop of Canterbury?’ She became aware that the Chancellor had stopped eating a dish of quails.
‘Foliot is the obvious man.’
‘I agree. But it’s rumoured that in his final days Theobald recommended someone else entirely.’
‘So I heard.’ Neither looked at Becket.
My friends have truly excelled themselves, thought the Chancellor. He delicately ripped the flesh from a quail leg. Eleanor flicked her eyes at him, noting that his cheeks were more highly coloured than usual.
That evening, on the high tide following the one eight hours earlier that had taken the Templar Knights from France, the royal newlyweds were put aboard a ship for England, the bride already asleep in the arms of her nurse. The weather was calm.
Eleanor blew kisses from the wharf.
Half an hour’s ride to the south-west, Viscount William kneeled at Henry’s feet. Standing behind the King were the Chancellor, Richard, a small group of knights and their regimental commander. Across Henry’s palms lay a dagger, its blade curved, its handle inlaid with lapis lazuli. Water stood in the King’s eyes.
‘My darling William …’ Emotion silenced him a moment. He drew a deep breath and knuckled away his tears. ‘Of all my mother’s children, you I love best, as you know. This was the dagger of our papa. During the crisis in his battle for Normandy, it was this weapon that won it. It cut the throat of the Seneschal of France, and immediately resistance collapsed. I now confer it upon you. Arise, William Plantagenet, Seneschal of Normandy.’
When the younger brother stood, he seemed even taller than before. He and the King fell into each other’s arms.
How is it I never realised his importance to Henry? Becket wondered, then answered his own question: Because Henry kept him hidden in Anjou and never spoke about him. The family treasure! The one who’ll take over his empire if the King dies and his heir is underage. I see the chink in your armour, Beast.
William could not stop smiling as he gazed at the heirloom that had found its way from Jerusalem to northern Europe after the First Crusade.
Henry regained his composure. ‘It’s only for ceremonial occasions.’ He handed William the silk-lined case in which the dagger slept. ‘Back to work,’ he added.
Henry, Hamelin, William, Becket, Richard, the regimental commander and the King’s master mason clinked cups of cider. ‘You surprised me with Champagne, Louis,’ Henry said. ‘I surprised you with the Vexin. Now I have another surprise.’ The master mason had sketched the enormous castle of Chaumont that stood hard against the River Loire. It protected Blois and stood as a constant warning to Anjou. ‘It’s impossible to besiege. But now …’ Henry smiled around him, his finger planted on a spot on the back wall. ‘Here’s the weak point. Who volunteers to be a river man?’
‘I do,’ William said.
‘I also,’ Richard exclaimed.
Henry frowned. ‘Our papa taught William to swim. Can you swim, Lout?’
‘Better than most fish, sire.’
Becket sniggered. ‘At least as well as a stone.’
The King muttered, ‘If you’re lying and you drown, Richard …’
‘Sire, I’ll stay drowned. As the Chancellor would wish.’
‘Neither you nor William may wear armour. You can take knives, and a tool to open the watergate.’
William and Richard shared a tent. That evening the new young Seneschal asked, ‘Can you really swim?’
‘Swimming is very difficult. One must take instruction, then practise.’
‘So you can’t?’
‘Rivers terrify me.’
‘Hold onto my back, but stay calm and don’t stop me breathing, or we’ll both die.’
&
nbsp; Henry’s infantry reached Chaumont-sur-Loire by forced march at the end of November, mercenary knights riding easy beside the men on foot. For a month the castle’s defenders had been lazing about, playing knucklebones, eating, drinking and sleeping in. Some had smuggled women into their cramped quarters. Suddenly their winter break was interrupted by marauders who appeared from the direction of Tours, laying waste to smallholdings outside the massive walls. Astonished, at first the guards watched as if at a puppet show while cavalrymen put hovels and workshops to the torch, and freed herds of horses and cows from their winter stalls, driving them towards their own forces.
‘That’s my finest destrier!’ a Chaumont knight shouted. He was joined by others, yelling and furious. ‘Our best horses! They’re stealing our horses and cows!’
William and Richard capsized their little boat a few feet from the castle’s watergate, where long reeds concealed it. With the mason’s instructions about how to calculate the distance from the corner of the river wall, they had spotted the gate as they drifted downstream. Richard clung to William’s shoulder with one hand, holding a crowbar in the other. William had wrapped the flag of Anjou around his body from armpits to groin, but he was such a strong swimmer he reached the wall in three strokes. The river water, sluggish but freezing cold, was too deep for their feet to touch the bottom.
‘Give me the crowbar,’ he said. ‘Pretend you’re walking. Move your arms up and down and breathe slowly.’ He braced his legs against the wall and levered open the lock. The gate swung inwards. Like a cat escaping a bathtub, Richard jumped into the tunnel. William heaved himself up and together they trod gingerly through a dark, slimy passage.
William still carried the crowbar, anticipating another gate at the other end, but there was none. Silently he placed the tool on the stones.
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