That evening the visitors dined together in a thoughtful mood, and left the next morning at first light.
England’s Queen was pregnant, William and Isabel enjoyed trysts that edged closer to the chasm into which each longed and feared to plunge, and war with Louis began as soon as the earth gave out fresh grass.
William bade Isabel a tearful farewell to take command of the ducal regiment. Urged on by Adela, Louis had summoned the largest army in two decades. In her house of retreat, Matilda received reports almost daily of how the campaign progressed. Louis would win a town; Henry would take it back. Courcelles-lès-Gisors was overrun by France. Four days later, Henry had it under his command. The Chancellor’s men were in the vanguard of the Norman army, while he gave the trumpet signal to advance or retreat. Richard fought beside William, both young men burning with war fever. Every evening Richard tallied those he’d killed.
Each morning the Duke, mounted on a warhorse caparisoned with the red and gold of Normandy, addressed his forces. He’d guessed from the outset that he was unbeatable, because Louis’ army was too large for the nimble action needed in the Vexin campaign, and Normandy had a stranglehold on supply lines from the Île-de-France. Henry’s infantry plundered every ship laden with provisions that sailed from Paris. On land, Louis’ packhorses were shot and their baggage looted. Louis flung a thousand cavalry and infantry at Trie-Château. Becket’s knights made a daring attack and slaughtered them all. Every new victory increases his faith in me, Becket congratulated himself. But one night a letter from Herbert was delivered to his tent.
Herbert wrote that the Chancellor’s exploits on the battlefield are condemned by all the religious in Canterbury. Meanwhile, a bishop complained to Matilda, Who can count the number of those the Chancellor has condemned to death or loss of all their possessions? Without mercy he has burned down farms and properties. To please or obey the King there is no one he will not injure.
‘Disturbing,’ muttered the Empress. ‘They bring out the worst in each other. It used not to be so.’
The spring weather that allowed the battle season to resume was warm and humid, causing her a disagreeable lassitude. As she rested after dinner, a pudding-faced oblate arrived with her head covering awry. ‘Empress! A terrible foreign man is here. He demands to see you. I can barely understand a word he says.’
Matilda fingered her rosary. ‘What does he look like?’
‘A giant with hair to his waist. He wears an axe on his belt. He ignored me when I told him he could not enter our house wearing the weapons of war.’
‘Prepare refreshments,’ the Empress ordered. ‘He’s made a long journey.’
When Douglas entered her private chamber, she rose with an imperious lack of haste. She noted that his hair was still brown and his beard, covering half his chest, was without a thread of grey. He was unchanged from the day he had arrived with a message from King David of Scotland, when Henry was a youth of fifteen. Of the many scouts King David had sent to ‘the rebel’ Henry Plantagenet, Douglas was the only one to escape capture and torture at the hands of Stephen and Prince Eustace. In those days his only language was Highland Gaelic.
He dropped to one knee to kiss her hand.
‘Well, merlin,’ she said. ‘You bring me news from Scotland?’ He shook his head, as enigmatic and intractable as ever. Perhaps he had forgotten how to speak French. She waited. He looked around for a chair and, without being invited, sat down. ‘No use trying to teach you manners,’ the Empress added. ‘You must be almost seventy.’
Either he did not understand or he could not be bothered with an apology. Besides the battleaxe, he had a drinking flask attached to his belt. He took a long swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and held the flask out to her, grinning.
Matilda turned away but could not suppress a smile. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Henry.’
She waited.
‘England,’ he added. He rolled his eyes up, trying to remember a word. It came to him. ‘Fight.’
‘For what?’
He made the gesture of unsheathing a sword, followed by a second mime, a vertical downward slash of his huge hand, then a horizontal movement.
‘Sword and cross,’ she murmured. ‘The two swords.’
The pudding-faced oblate entered with a tray that she placed before the Empress. She had brought small ale, pies made from fresh spring vegetables, and some lumpy cakes. For a man of gross habits, Douglas was picky about what he ate. He sniffed a pie and replaced it on the serving dish. ‘Hen food,’ he said. He stared at the young woman. ‘Find venison.’
With commendable courage the girl replied, ‘Sir, we don’t eat the flesh of animals. Except at Easter.’
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
‘There’ll be dried venison in his saddle bags,’ Matilda said to the girl. Turning back to Douglas, she spoke slowly, hoping he would understand her. ‘I’ve warned Henry against Theobald’s conviction that Becket should be the next Archbishop. I told him, “Once Bec slips from the leash by which you hold him, there’s no knowing how he’ll behave.”’
Douglas’s huge face split into a yellowing grin. He made a gesture of grasping a man around the throat to throttle him.
‘That’s not as easy as you may think,’ she replied. ‘Becket is as slippery as an eel.’
He turned to stare at the ceiling, then suddenly, with a snatch of his fist, grabbed a fly. He opened his palm to show her the dead insect.
They always communicate in riddles. ‘What of it?’ she asked.
Douglas stared at his dead fly. ‘Who?’ he replied.
Suddenly he knuckled his eyes as if dashing tears from them, then heaved himself to his feet and held up a huge arm as if in military salute. As he walked out, his feet made no sound on the floor.
The Empress blinked. She rang her little bell and the oblate appeared. ‘Did you notice where my visitor was heading when he left?’ she asked.
The girl seemed puzzled. ‘Your visitor, Empress? The Archdeacon of Poitiers? He left two hours ago. Nobody has been here since.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
News that England’s justiciars had crossed the Narrow Sea in a gale to advise Henry to appoint Becket to the throne of Canterbury reached Matilda’s ears some weeks later.
She decided to put aside her distaste for the son of her husband’s concubine, and summoned Hamelin. He arrived at her house of retreat, where the grave beauty of his face and his elegance of bearing caused such excitement that the prioress ordered extra prayers for a group of young nuns.
‘I hear Becket has withdrawn from the Vexin war,’ she said.
Her visitor reclined on a chair, deftly slicing with a silver-handled knife vegetable pies that he ate by the half-dozen. ‘Our Chancellor is in hospital in St Gervais, in Rouen.’ His deep voice soothed her.
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘His symptoms are fever one day, pain the next, headache, the flux, sore toes, inability to concentrate, a feeling of blindness in one eye. In short, an excuse to escape the battlefield. There’s more … I’ve been living on soldier’s rations for a month. May I have a honey cake?’
‘What more?’ The Empress sat upright in her chair.
‘He’s desperate to be Theobald’s successor but fears his excessive slaughter will turn not only the bishops but the monks of Christ Church against him. He’s been heard moaning, “I’ll be Henry’s slave forever.”’
The Empress grew agitated. ‘I told Henry to make him an earl somewhere in the north where roads are impassable eight months of the year. But Beaumont and de Lucy want him to hold the second sword. Henry puts great store by their advice.’ She paused to calm herself. ‘You look sad, my boy. Is there something else I should know?’
He remained silent, his sighted eye gazing out through her uncovered window at a bush heavy with fruit. A red-breasted robin hopped from branch to branch, darting its beak into the ripest berries. Suddenly a second robin alighted.
Instantly they flared their wings at each other, leaped into the air and began to fight. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘There’s enough food for twenty robins. But two battle as if their lives depended on it.’
Matilda replied sharply, ‘You’re here to discuss England’s next Archbishop.’
‘So I am.’ He lowered his voice to a faint rumble. ‘So I will.’ She waited. At length he added, ‘Henry says nothing, but I believe he’s made up his mind. There’s nothing to be done. Unless …’
‘Unless Bec dies?’
Hamelin nodded.
She said, ‘There’s the evil lout. I know Richard poisoned Prince Eustace.’
Hamelin’s demeanour was placid. ‘Our Richard.’
‘What do you mean, “Our Richard”?’
‘I’m not sure how to explain myself, Empress. The unseen world works in ways unfamiliar to men. I’m certain, for example, that the first disciples of the Saviour did not welcome the day of His crucifixion. They saw it not as a blessing for all mankind, but a disaster for their leader and themselves.’
‘You speak in riddles, like Douglas.’
‘So he did come to see you.’
‘No. Yes. I dreamed about him.’
‘Visited. Came in a dream … Richard will not poison Becket.’
She stamped her foot. ‘Why not! He’s a born murderer. Gilbert Foliot told me. Richard – that’s not his name, it’s something quite different, Welsh, I believe – can’t be trusted for an instant. I fear for Henry’s life with that creature so intimate with him.’
Hamelin raised a long, jewelled hand. ‘Don’t upset yourself. The Lout is devoted to both your sons. William has taught him to swim. In battle they fight side by side. He has shown our Richard how a smaller man may successfully attack a taller one with a sword.’
The deep rumble of his voice calmed her again. ‘Please take Henry this letter. It explains why he must not propose Becket for the Archbishop’s throne.’
The King arrived two days later, wet with perspiration from six hours galloping, his horses changed four times. He stormed into the quiet of the religious house, a body of knights tramping after him.
‘Where’s William?’ his mother asked.
‘Greetings, Mother. From your note, I was under the impression it was me with whom you wished to speak. I’m mistaken, so I’ll leave.’
The Empress glared at his knights.
‘Men, please go outside.’ He waited for her to invite him to sit. She didn’t.
‘You believe Becket is your creature who’ll do your bidding, Henry. He’s a savage dog on a chain.’
Her demeaning greeting still hurt. ‘Your wisdom, Mother, never ceases to astonish. How is it you believe such ill of Bec when, if you remember, you urged me to appoint him Chancellor?’
‘I urged you to make him Chancellor because we needed money! There wasn’t a penny in England’s treasury. We dined on stale fish. Half the country was starving.’
Her outburst calmed them both. They sat in silence until, at length, Matilda reached out to touch her son’s knee. She patted the seat of the couch beside her. Henry moved from an uncomfortable chair. His mother picked up one of his heavy hands and held it in hers. ‘I’ve known him since he was a nobody aged twenty, worming his way into Theobald’s heart. Lust for power is the most flagrant of all the passions, but Tom has learned to hide it beneath a cloak of servility. Give him the power he craves and he’ll use it against you, my dear son.’
‘The sword is more persuasive than the cross, Mother.’
‘Who makes a king?’
‘A king does. He fathers an heir for his throne. Or, like me and my great-grandfather, his crown comes to him through his sword.’
‘You’re wrong, Henry. Now the Church makes a king. You became king when Theobald crowned you. Your heir will be crowned by the next Archbishop. Until he is, he’ll not be king.’
Henry was silent for a while. Then, ‘Becket has worked for me for six years. He’s been guilty of theft and mendacity, and of insubordination. For that he’s apologised fulsomely. I frighten him. He’s tall and strong, but …’ The King began to laugh. ‘He was raised to be a clerk. He knows I could break him in two with my bare hands.’
Matilda remembered the dead fly in Douglas’s hand.
Henry sensed her troubled mood. He reached over to touch her cheek. ‘Mother, have faith in your firstborn. Have I not achieved all you ever asked of me? At this very moment, I have enough power to conquer the Île-de-France. Louis’ army is demoralised and will desert. I’m tempted to strike in case he gets an heir from his new Queen.’
She leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘Son, you’re already as great a prince as Barbarossa. Leave France to be an irritant for you and for him. It cements your amity. Meanwhile, I implore you, recommend our kinsman Foliot to replace Theobald.’
‘I’ll consider it.’ His expression was serious but she sensed he was already thinking of something else.
‘What of the Vexin?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Louis loses ground day by day. I’ll propose a truce to allow him to save face.’
For the first time in many years, the Empress Matilda took her son’s cheeks between her hands. ‘I do love you, Henry. I respect you. I respect and admire you as much as I did my father, the Lion.’ He slid off the couch to his knees.
‘May I have your blessing, Mother?’
Her large, soft hand resting on the crown of his head was a bliss he knew he’d remember for the rest of his life.
The monarchs invited the Pope to bless their truce, made in the shade of the king of the greenwoods, the Parley Tree. Earlier in the day, Henry had ordered its ribbons and fertility dolls removed.
‘I rather liked them,’ Alexander remarked. While the kings stood, he stayed mounted on his white horse. ‘In Siena, the common people have similar customs.’
‘Holiness, I’ll tie them back myself!’
Henry and Louis embraced. ‘I know many of your magnates fear I’ll attack the Île-de-France. They’re mistaken. Paris is yours, brother. Now and forever.’ Louis’ eyes moistened. Henry added, ‘I’ve many problems. Too many problems.’ He asked Louis to excuse him briefly for a private conversation with Alexander.
He led the Pontiff’s stallion to the further side of the elm, where a single chair draped in white silk had been set out for him. Again Henry spread his cloak on the ground and helped the Pope dismount. When he was seated, he sat at his feet.
‘Holiness, only God knows the length of our days. Since I don’t know if I’ll live out this year, I wish to have my eldest son crowned Young King of England, but sadly there’s no Archbishop of Canterbury to perform the ceremony that by custom and tradition falls to him.’
Alexander nodded. ‘We do not make assumptions. When you refer to your eldest son, we hope you mean the legitimate one?’
Henry decided to risk a jest. ‘I believe my wife would have me poisoned were I to promote my bastard.’ A slight smile moved across Alexander’s face, while his lawyer’s mind, Henry saw, moved across a chessboard.
In silky Latin the Pope asked, ‘Do you wish to establish a regency council in England to guide your Young King?’
Spies everywhere. ‘Most prescient, Holy Father. My Queen is competent in administration, as are the royal justiciars and my younger brother, William. Were I to die on campaign this year, William would be regent in place of the Queen, who would return to rule Aquitaine. My Chancellor, whom the royal justiciars and the English baronage favour as Archbishop of Canterbury, is a man of outstanding ability.’
Alexander replied, ‘Your Chancellor is not a priest. Nor is he famous for his knowledge of canon law. What are his views on the reforms of Pope Gregory?’
‘I’ve never asked him.’
‘It’s an interesting issue.’ The papal mind seemed to wander off.
Henry said, ‘It’s not unknown for a priest to retain his post as Chancellor. You, Holiness, encouraged King Louis to keep Hugh of Champfleury
in that role when Hugh became Bishop of Soissons.’
‘Indeed.’ Abruptly Alexander’s thoughts returned to a painful issue. ‘Our disobedient child Frederick Barbarossa keeps Archbishop Rainald as his Chancellor.’ In a less sharp tone he added, ‘Rainald is devoted to the Emperor.’
Henry ignored the query in the Pope’s face. ‘Large obstacles lie in my Chancellor’s path to Canterbury. My wife and mother are hostile, as are many bishops. The time needed to undo this Gordian knot concerns me. I have rebellions in the south of my continental domains, and in England the Welsh cause trouble again. I therefore seek certainty for my dynasty wherever I can.’
The Sienese reflected. The marriage of the royal children had driven Louis to a passion of rage and tears. But Alexander calculated that the feelings of the King of France could be elegantly soothed if his daughter were crowned Young Queen of England. ‘So, Highness …?’
‘So, Holiness, I ask your permission for England’s other Archbishop, York, to crown my son. Especially,’ he added quickly, ‘as my Chancellor is ill in hospital in Rouen. He may not survive to rise to the throne of Canterbury.’
This last remark was so patently false, both men smiled. ‘I believe,’ Alexander replied, ‘that if you and King Louis were to visit him, he would recover.’
Henry jumped to his feet and barely stopped himself slapping the Holy One on the thigh. He adjusted his expression. ‘I learn from you, Father. I learn from you.’
For his part, once mounted, the Pope did not resist reaching down from his horse to ruffle the young monarch’s hair. ‘My son, you have much to offer the world,’ he murmured. ‘Your Viking ancestors … extraordinary people.’
The war had lasted through spring into summer, and with fields swaying with ripening grain, barons were eager to return to their estates to ensure the harvesting was done honestly. Returning to Louis, Henry said, ‘Brother, let’s demonstrate to the world that our battle is at an end. Let’s go together to visit my Chancellor in hospital.’
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