The Lions' Torment

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  ‘There could be no greater proof of our amity.’ But Louis was worried. Nothing less than victory over ‘the Angevin devil’ would satisfy Adela. He hoped that on the way home to Paris he would think of something to turn aside her rage. He and Henry had not made peace; they had only called a truce. But maybe that would satisfy his Queen.

  Alerted that her first and unloved husband was coming to the Norman capital, Eleanor, now well advanced in pregnancy, arranged to decamp south to Domfront. William had been wounded during the fighting, sustaining a deep slash on his left arm that had taken him out of battle a few days before the truce. With poultices and rest the wound was healing. Now it was his duty as Seneschal to ride at the head of the Queen’s cavalcade.

  Isabel rode beside her. Behind them in the summer dust were maids, other servants and baggage. They arrived outside Domfront at the gentle moment of twilight, the castle already lit for them, its small windows glowing against an opaque sky. Eleanor knew William could stay only a day before returning to his duties in Rouen. She and Isabel went together to bathe, each in a small wooden tub with water that came to their waists. ‘Wash us properly between our legs,’ Eleanor ordered a bath servant. ‘My belly’s so big I can’t see. And my legs need massaging. My hair is full of dust but it’s too late in the day to wash it.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Isabel said.

  Their maids rubbed their bodies and faces with olive oil and dressed them in loose linen robes. They ate supper. As the sky turned black and sparkled with stars, Eleanor rose to leave for her quarters. ‘May I accompany you?’ the Countess asked.

  She and William walked behind the Queen. At the oak door Eleanor turned. ‘Goodnight. May your dreams reach the angels.’ She shut the door quickly, then turned and grabbed Orianne. ‘Here’s hoping Willi can spend the night with her. An unfamiliar bedchamber is always exciting as long as it’s well appointed.’

  ‘But how can the Countess shake off her maid?’

  ‘Good girl! Run out and say I want her maid to sleep with me tonight. There’s me and the baby I carry. I need two maids in my sleeping chamber.’

  Orianne caught up with William and the Countess twenty yards down the corridor, where Isabel’s maid waited outside her quarters. The conversation confused the woman, whose only language was English. ‘You must sleep with Her Highness,’ Isabel explained. ‘You may return in the morning to dress me.’

  Inside her quarters, she lay on the bed. William kneeled on the floor beside her, holding her hand, every so often lifting it to his lips. Neither spoke. After a time, Isabel de Warenne said softly, ‘William, I’d like to …’

  He rose from his knees to kneel on the edge of the mattress, an arm on either side of her. Her slender hand stroked him.

  ‘My lady, I cannot …’

  ‘I must have it!’

  In the moments it took them to open their clothing, William felt his heart heave into his throat. ‘Is the time safe?’ he whispered.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘God help us!’

  Through Rouen’s cobbled streets the French and English monarchs trotted side by side, royal standards streaming in the summer breeze. The populace came out cheering, throwing flowers beneath the hooves of their shimmering horses. En route, Henry confided that he hoped soon to have his son crowned Young King and Louis’ princess Young Queen. ‘I regret acting so hastily,’ he said. ‘Your third marriage took me by surprise.’ He gave Louis a sidelong grin. After a moment, it was returned.

  They relaxed, arriving at the hospital in good spirits. Becket, who had been walking about in the garden, rushed back to bed. The kings entered his chamber to find him lying with one hand limp on the thin red blanket that covered him. His struggles to sit up were pitiful.

  ‘You’ve had too much sun, Bec,’ Henry said.

  ‘Oh no, sire. I’ve not been out of bed.’

  ‘Just his hand,’ Henry murmured in Latin.

  ‘And his face,’ Louis replied.

  ‘My brother, the King of France, can cure scrofula with his kiss. I’m sure he’ll cure whatever ailments afflict you, Chancellor.’

  Becket sighed as if at the point of death.

  Louis kissed his forehead. When they left he said, ‘I don’t know why I like him.’

  ‘That goes for both of us. He has some magical charm.’

  ‘As do we!’ Louis chortled.

  Wit! From Louis? marvelled Henry. The Champagne girl has transformed him. ‘Be my guest in Rouen this evening. We’ll hunt in the morning.’

  Louis hesitated as he considered the temper storm from his wife. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  They dined alone in a chamber on the north side of the palace where the summer sun had left the air relatively cool. Henry took the opportunity to show Louis the papal bull that allowed the Archbishop of York to crown the Young King, and copies of his orders to the great financier William Cade to supply gold for royal regalia. The sums were enormous.

  They drank several toasts. ‘All for our children, brother,’ Henry said. ‘I want them crowned as soon as possible. I leave for Gascony this week, where the rebellion is serious.’

  You have too much territory for one man to rule, thought Louis. After a third toast however, the French King asked, ‘Do you trust your Chancellor?’

  Henry frowned. ‘He steals from the treasury. Otherwise he’s been a loyal servant for six years. England could have collapsed financially without him and plunged back into anarchy. I could have lost the throne.’

  Louis nodded. ‘But if he were to become Archbishop of Canterbury, which is now the rumour in every see … My bishops tell me that he’s not well versed …’ He paused, trying to find a delicate word of condemnation.

  ‘Theologically, he’s an ignoramus.’

  ‘Thank you. I didn’t want to use that term. But he’s said to be an admirer of the Gregorian reforms.’

  ‘The Pope asked me about that earlier. I have to admit I’m little versed myself, beyond what all of us know: that Gregory decreed that not only monks but all clergy must be celibate.’

  Louis gave him a glance sharper than any Henry had ever seen from him. To cover his unease he launched into a description of the church in England. ‘All powers of crown and cross are mixed together. That’s why I need a man on whom I’ve been able to rely for so long as my next Archbishop of Canterbury. I don’t want a bishop. They favour the status quo. I need a man I can command to clean the Augean stables.’

  ‘To have your Chancellor as Archbishop, running the Church at a click of your fingers … that, indeed, will strengthen your arm.’

  Henry moved his head in a small bow to acknowledge the compliment. Louis’ expression unsettled him. ‘You leave something unsaid, brother.’

  Louis pushed out his lips like a horse trader considering a price. He stared into his cup, swirling around the wine that was left. At length he replied. ‘Gregory was the first pope to depose a king. In sees where he is revered, Mother Church burgeons in power.’

  ‘Do you suggest she ignores the sword of state?’

  ‘I say she despises it. She alone is mighty. To her, we kings are mere laymen, with blood on our hands.’

  ‘I’ll discuss that with my Chancellor.’

  ‘What have you promised him?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve not even hinted at my inclination. Everything you hear is a story spread by his supporters.’

  Louis fingered a small bunch of grapes. ‘He does not seem to silence them,’ he remarked idly.

  Not far away, Thomas Becket prepared to leave hospital. Visited by two kings, kissed by both, he was, he announced, completely restored to health. Richer de l’Aigle had arrived with a well-padded wagon.

  ‘What happened to your hand?’ the Chancellor asked. Richer’s hand was bandaged over the stump of his left index finger.

  ‘Battle wound.’ His tone was rueful. He looked Becket up and down. ‘You don’t have a scratch,’ he added bitterly.

  The Chancellor shrugged. ‘I was
a commander. I didn’t need to be in there, hacking away.’ He glanced at the wagon. ‘I’m not an invalid. I’ll ride.’

  The Baron’s mouth twisted with sarcasm. ‘You’re a miracle, Tom. Dying one minute. Galloping the next. Why do you look as sour as a lemon?’

  ‘I? Sour? You look as if you’ve drunk poison.’ The Chancellor drew Richer to the side of a corridor, away from listening ears. ‘My liege has the Sienese under his thumb,’ he said. ‘By deception he has from him a bull that permits Roger of York to crown his prince Young King. It’s not an English custom to have two crowned kings. It’s French. Relying on Alexander’s ignorance of English traditions, our King proposes to introduce this practice to the realm to shore up his family’s power.’

  ‘What’s the harm in it?’

  ‘The harm, Richer, is that Henry is changing laws by stealth. Here in Normandy he’s tried out one method then another for administering justice. When he finds something that works to his liking, he makes it ducal law in Normandy. It’ll become royal law in England. And all is done in a clandestine way. Nothing is written down. He issues verbal instructions to his local sheriffs. He pretends to be maintaining traditions, but you just watch, Riche. In another five years English law will not be recognisable. He’ll have changed it without admitting what he’s done. Roman law will be a ghost. Crown law will rule.’

  ‘Laws need to reflect changing times.’

  ‘Why?’ Thomas shouted.

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  Becket’s face turned red with anger. ‘He’s arranged to have the boy crowned by that reeking turd Roger of York! It’s Canterbury who crowns kings. Not fucking York.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘I will not shut up. You shut up. Herbert writes that there are now hundreds ready to put their names to a document in support of me as Theobald’s successor.’

  ‘Hundreds of what?’

  ‘Scholars. Men of high rank.’

  ‘Only bishops count. And to them, Tom, you stink like a turd.

  They’ll never forgive you for your scutage on the Church. Similarly the monks of Christ Church, the men who must elect you. They hate your deplorable Latin. And it’s not escaped the attention of Mother Church that you were on a killing spree in France this spring. I’ve heard you described as “the bloody Chancellor”. Forget Herbie’s petition. Only the King can intimidate your multitude of enemies. I’d be especially diligent in his service for some months yet.’

  Becket snorted. ‘My destiny approaches. I feel it, Riche.’

  The Baron realised he had the grin of an imbecile at a country fair. He got hold of his wits. ‘Tom, if you’re to get to Canterbury, I can only repeat that you must continue to make yourself adorable to the King.’

  ‘You know he was my lover?’ Becket replied airily.

  ‘I know no such thing. It was a jest. We used to have fun saying, “Tom lies down like a harlot for Henry.”’

  ‘I tell you, he was my lover!’

  ‘Where? When?’

  ‘I won’t reveal details. Only that that little fiend Richard discovered us in flagrante.’

  ‘The wish is parent to the lie, Tom. Plantagenet men are notorious for their love of quinny. Have you made this …’ momentarily his vocabulary deserted him, ‘fascinating information available to anyone else?’

  ‘Only Herbie.’

  ‘Only Herbie? You may as well have told the Grand Sow, King Louis and Alexander III.’

  Becket gave his pretty, broken-toothed smile. ‘Perhaps I shall.’

  ‘You’re never to mention this again. You must deny it once the rumour gets out – as it will if you’ve told Herbert of Bosham.’

  ‘Giving me orders, Riche?’ Becket glanced with contempt at the Baron’s mangled hand. ‘I’ll not stay to argue with you in this ghastly hospital. Let’s go.’

  ‘Louis is at the palace with Henry. They’ll be annoyed if you turn up. Come to Bonsmoulins.’

  ‘Excellent. Do you remember how we wagered for it that I would never become Archbishop of Canterbury?’

  ‘We did not wager!’

  ‘You were drunk, Riche. You tell me to keep my mouth shut.

  You should follow your own advice.’

  The Eagle snorted. ‘So ambition defeats your lust for vengeance. I knew it would, you worm.’

  Becket grabbed his injured hand and twisted it. ‘You know nothing, you sot. I told you, I am a panther cat. I bide my time.’

  ‘And he suspects nothing?’

  ‘He’s too proud to imagine a worm might undo him. And the whole whorehouse of Plantagenet.’

  Two angry men rode away from St Gervais’ hospital.

  Before the end of summer, Henry had ridden south and laid siege to Castillon-sur-Argent, taking it in a week ‘to the wonder and terror of the Gascons’. In autumn, Eleanor gave birth in Domfront Castle to a daughter whom she decided to name after herself, and the same month, in the north of Normandy, her husband gave Crown Prince Henry into the keeping of Thomas Becket. ‘As I promised I would, Tom,’ he said.

  The Chancellor draped his cloak around the young Prince, pulling the boy close. ‘I consider him my own son.’ He looked down into the pink face uplifted to him. ‘Darling child,’ he murmured. He turned back to the King. ‘I wanted you to be my son, Henry,’ he added huskily. ‘You’ve no idea how much I loved you.’

  Momentarily they met, deep inside each other. Henry was first to glance away. ‘Look after my Prince while I try to persuade your enemies you should succeed Theobald.’

  ‘Is it so difficult?’

  The King’s mood shifted suddenly. ‘Difficult! It would be difficult for the Virgin! I have to squeeze their necks like chickens, one by squawking one. It’ll take me until next spring before I can bring them to their senses. You’ve made enemies by the dozen.’

  ‘I made them on your behalf.’ Becket’s hand ruffled the curls of the child.

  Henry glared. ‘By the way, what’s your view of the Gregorian reforms?’

  ‘Essential. The Church was in a shambles and could have shattered under the weight of corruption without them.’

  The scholars have begun Tom’s education, Henry thought.

  ‘He considered all kings his vassals, did he not?’

  Becket laughed. ‘Henry, your own great-grandfather rejected that dogma in England. And Gregory, in his wisdom, decided to ignore what he could not condone.’

  ‘Nor hope to enforce.’

  ‘Indeed, sire.’

  ‘Gregory died in exile,’ the King added with a smile. He gave his Crown Prince a peremptory kiss. ‘Be a good boy, darling. Do as your new papa tells you.’ The child nodded, his head bent. Why does he always look frightened of me? his father wondered. I’ve never been cruel to him. The boy turned to bury his face against Becket’s leg. ‘Bec, you’re to convince and persuade every magnate and royal official to recognise this Prince as my heir. All are to pay homage and swear fealty to him. He’ll be known as Henry the Young King as soon as his coronation can be arranged.’

  ‘I am your servant, sire. And his. I’ll see to it that every man in England recognises as his liege my darling boy.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re disappointed York will be crowning him?’

  For a moment he saw pure hatred in Becket’s face before it vanished in laughter.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Countess of Surrey prayed, ‘God defend me from myself.’ William Plantagenet had already visited her bed five times. Resisting full copulation, their fire had heated to the wild chaos of a forge. One night Isabel said, ‘I can’t bear it. I must leave.’ Her vow to remain widowed for three years had twelve months to run.

  Eleanor was impressed by her willpower but disappointed that she’d not change her mind. ‘One must be practical. Sooner or later passion will overcome you,’ she said.

  ‘On the first occasion we were overcome. But William said a prayer …’ Modesty brought silence.

  ‘You sailed with me on the Esnecca. I�
��m sure Henry will approve of your sailing in her back to England. He wants to dispatch the Chancellor and Crown Prince. When these gales are over, you should travel together with them.’

  ‘I dislike the Chancellor.’

  ‘Not as deeply as I, dear sister. If he manages to worm his way into Canterbury, he’ll be unbearable.’

  ‘I thought it was a secret.’

  Eleanor waved a small, ringed hand. ‘The English court buzzes like a hive with rumours spread by our Chancellor’s followers. Are we surprised? Not I. He’d be Pope if he could. God knows, maybe he will. How has William responded to your decision to leave him for a while?’

  ‘He’s downcast, but stalwart.’

  ‘In that way he resembles his father.’ The Queen became reflective. ‘You won’t stay for our Christmas court in Bayeux?’ They looked into each other’s eyes and burst out laughing. Eleanor began humming a well-known song, ‘Christmas court, Christmas court, time of blessings, time of love.’ Abruptly she sang aloud, ‘Time of falling pregnant.’

  Henry ordered Richard to accompany the Countess on the voyage back to England. ‘Now that you can actually swim, if the ship is wrecked you’re to save my son first, then Isabel.’

  ‘I thought that in a shipwreck the Chancellor might try to save the Crown Prince, Highness.’

  The King was running his finger along the edge of his dagger. ‘Your wit tests my patience, Lout. As we both know, the Chancellor has the courage to save nobody but himself. Come here and put your tongue out. I’m going to cut it off.’

  Richard stepped forward and rested his chin on the desk. He poked out his tongue. It was long, pink and wriggling. He mumbled something incomprehensible.

  ‘What nonsense do you gabble?’

  The tongue withdrew. ‘I said, “Please cut it down the middle,”

  sire. I’ve always thought a forked tongue would be most …’ The monarch waited. ‘… delightful for the ladies. With a forked tongue one could—’

  Henry held up his hand. ‘Enough, loathsome creature! I’ve heard you’re making up for your years as a catamite by rolling every maid you see, including the wife of an elderly baron. You’re to keep your lascivious eyes off the Countess.’