The Lions' Torment

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  ‘Sire! She’s the fiancée of my beloved William. I could no more gaze on her with lustful eyes than if she were my own sister.’

  ‘If you had a sister I wouldn’t be surprised what you did to her.’

  Richard reflected a moment before agreeing. ‘It would be natural, don’t you think – a woman one knows so intimately? The kings of ancient Egypt married their sisters and their dynasties lasted thousands of years. Incest was a virtue for them.’

  ‘The Christian church takes a view different from ancient Egyptians.’

  ‘Yes, Highness. You and the Queen are rather too closely related according to canon law.’

  ‘Shut up! I want to discuss something serious.’

  ‘I’m to keep watch on the Chancellor?’

  The King smiled. He remained silent a while. ‘Bec will attempt to seduce the Countess to indiscreet talk. You’re to ensure they are never alone together. She’s been much in William’s company and knows, I suspect, some things she should not. William was a witness at the peace talks in Fréteval with King Louis. They remain a secret. She’s an intelligent woman, and a wise one. But my dear Chancellor can charm a bird from a tree when he puts his mind to it. So stay sharp, Lout.’

  ‘As your dagger, sire.’

  The Esnecca sailed at dawn from the harbour of Bayeux, where the tides were so high and swift that large ships had to be loaded in haste. Henry, Eleanor, William and a body of retainers rode down to farewell the Prince and the Countess. Unknown to any but the royals, Hamelin was already on board among the sailors, a woollen cap hiding his hair and most of his face. Henry was taking no chances with the life of his son. Were the ship to founder, it was Hamelin, as strong a swimmer as William, who would save the child.

  A cold south-westerly blew. While the group waited for the captain to manoeuvre the boat against the wharf, Henry took Becket aside. ‘Every magnate and royal official is to swear fealty to your adopted son.’

  ‘You may rely on it, Henry.’

  The King noticed that the Chancellor was not paying attention. In the dim, cold, windy morning he kept turning his eyes towards William and Isabel. William was on his knees, his head pressed against the Countess’s belly. She pulled off his fur cap to run ungloved fingers through his hair.

  As soon as the ship cleared the harbour, Becket sent a message inviting the Countess to join him and the Prince for a warming breakfast, eager to discover from the lady of Warenne the peace terms agreed between Henry and Louis. She’ll know, he thought. He’d heard from Paris that on learning of them herself, Queen Adela had screamed for an hour then cried for two days. After that she had taken to her bed with ‘autumn fever’. Her brothers with their princesses had left Paris for Blois.

  Louis, with no family but his sulking wife, was reported to be spending his days inspecting mongrel puppies as replacement for the one Henry had stolen when he conquered Chaumont-sur-Loire.

  Isabel arrived in Becket’s cabin holding Richard’s arm. The Chancellor’s face turned to stone. Richard’s pale eyes stared through him. ‘Set another place at my table,’ Becket ordered a churl. The first course was precarious to serve and almost impossible to eat in the rough weather. He turned to Richard. ‘Dear boy, would you be kind enough to take my adopted son on deck for some fresh air?’

  ‘No. Tell one of your servants to take him.’

  The tension between them flustered Isabel, but she graciously saw a way. ‘I’ll do it. I’d be delighted.’

  When she and a churl had left with the child, Becket turned to Richard. ‘You putrid shit.’

  Richard smiled pleasantly. ‘Don’t tempt me.’

  The Chancellor looked down into his lap. In an equally quiet tone he replied, ‘I’d love to tempt you. You’re more gorgeous than ever. I find it difficult to be in your presence without a flood of memories of our years together.’

  ‘Would you like to suck my cock?’

  ‘How dare you! You know it’s the talk of England that I’ll be Archbishop of Canterbury, you—’

  The cabin door opened. The Countess was carrying Prince Henry, whose red cheeks were bunched from crying. ‘The waves frightened him,’ she said, lurching against the doorway. ‘I’m so sorry, Chancellor.’

  Becket held out his arms for the child, who buried his face in his neck. Richard rose to welcome the Countess’s return.

  ‘Just to finish our conversation, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what courtiers say, but I know who spreads these stories.’ He turned to smile at Isabel. ‘The Chancellor and I were discussing a ridiculous rumour.’

  The rough crossing was speedy and Becket did not find a second chance for squeezing information from Isabel.

  At Southampton, disembarking with the ship’s crew, Hamelin disappeared into the crowd. Within a week, he had sailed back to Henry. ‘The country is at peace and prosperous, but Mother Church is fractious. It would be useful if you could cross the Narrow Sea to calm her.’

  ‘Impossible. Anjou, Maine and Normandy, the heart of the empire, are secure, but for the rest …’ He flung up his hands. ‘Petty men who fancy themselves warlords, picking fights with each other every week. They command half a dozen knights and a few score vassals armed with clubs and kitchen knives.’ He snorted. ‘If Louis would copy what I’ve done in England, with English law overriding the law of Rome, all France could be pacified. But will he, the fool? No! “France is the most Christian nation on earth,” he once boasted to me. “Roman law is French law.” And what do his bishops do to stop the fighting? Piss into the wind.’ He began pacing about. ‘The situation in Aquitaine is worst. I need eyes and ears everywhere, and my best fighting men to keep control.’

  Hamelin nodded perfunctorily, as if to say, ‘Did you expect bouquets of flowers?’ Instead he said, ‘But the Church in England, brother? You neglect her. She grows more truculent and restive by the day.’

  ‘I’ve never stopped working on the question of who should be the next Archbishop of Canterbury. I summon bishops, abbots, priors, earls, barons, royal officials to cross the sea for audience every week. Every one of the castles along the French coast crawls with men in silk shoes.’

  His brother nodded. He knew that Henry’s tactic was to ask their preference, listen closely, and if they suggested someone other than Becket, put to them the argument for the Chancellor.

  ‘I’m exhausted and demoralised,’ Henry added.

  A light scratching on the door alerted them to the presence outside of the Lout, escort for an abbot whom the King had summoned to take ship. The meeting was unusually heated, as the Lout had warned his liege it would be. The abbot described Becket as ‘a stain on the garment of Our Lady’.

  Afterwards, Richard slid back into the room, sinuous as a lizard.

  ‘You were right, Piglet,’ Henry grumbled. ‘My justiciars are correct in their assessment of Canterbury’s needs. But the men I talk to are so prejudiced against Bec they refuse to listen to reason.’

  Richard said cheerfully, ‘Reason is not important to Mother Church. But sire, Bec has not been idle on his own behalf. He’s restocked Canterbury’s library and appointed another dozen scribes. The monks don’t spit when they say his name now. Or fewer of them do so.’

  ‘Who’s your informant, Lout?’

  Richard looked modest. ‘A youth I befriended in the scriptorium. He was poor and without a protector.’

  ‘I need a new tactic,’ Henry muttered.

  The next churchman who visited was a bishop. Before questioning him about Canterbury, the King asked, ‘Your Grace, is it true that a baron has most scandalously taken some of your best farmland?’ He clapped his hands over his ears when the prelate related the crimes committed against his see. ‘I shall right this wicked injustice, Your Grace.’

  A scribe was summoned. Henry dictated a chirograph that ordered the baron to return the stolen lands. He cut the parchment in three with his own dagger, handing one copy to the bishop, keeping one for himself and adding, ‘And this one goes to my
justiciars. He will be put on trial if he disobeys.’

  The bishop listened, nodding, as Henry pointed out the importance to ‘Our Great Mother’ of having a man in charge of Canterbury who would protect her from ‘noxious encroachments’. At the end of the interview, he rose.

  ‘Lord King, I acknowledge your argument that the criminality of clergy and barons has passed all bounds. Much as I dislike him, I accept Becket,’ he said.

  At supper that evening, Henry crowed, ‘My new tactic works! I promise well-dowered fiancées for their nephews. I undertake to order my officials to find kind and appropriate husbands for their nieces.’ With a flourish of magnanimity that made the supper table laugh, he added, ‘I waive the tax I’m owed for these marriages.’

  The Lout pretended he would faint from shock. Hamelin smiled sardonically.

  ‘I don’t take money for myself,’ the King huffed.

  Clustered in chapels, the prelates whispered their gratitude for the magnanimity of the sovereign. They agreed, ‘He’s not as tight-fisted as wicked people say.’

  Henry invited a baron who hated Becket to inspect a white gyrfalcon ‘as beautiful as the Queen’s’. He passed the bird from his gauntlet to his visitor’s, watching him pant with excitement. As they left the mews, Henry said with a laugh, ‘Why don’t we trade?’

  Over a cup of wine, the deal was done.

  At the beginning of spring, the King wrote to his justiciars that he was now confident he could propose the Chancellor, Thomas of London, as Archbishop of Canterbury. ‘But there’s still the problem of my wife and my mother,’ he told Hamelin, who grinned.

  ‘You useless quinny!’ Henry shouted. ‘Smirking like a cat.’

  ‘Your charm with females, even your wife, is celebrated, brother. I suggest you invite her to meet you in Caen. She loves the castle and spent some of the happiest hours of her life lying there with you, listening to the sound of the sea.’

  The Queen arrived and allowed Henry to join her in the bedchamber, seated on a couch. When he outlined his reasons for deciding to appoint Becket, she replied calmly, ‘I’ll never lie with you again.’

  Outside the sea exploded softly against the white cliffs below, with muscular strength drawing back into itself. Its sounds added to the feeling of voluptuous repose that wafted in on humid salty air. Henry answered evenly, ‘I’m deeply disappointed. I want more children from you, cousin. But if you want a divorce, Pope Alexander won’t stand in our way. We are illegally united within the bounds of consanguinity, which was sufficient for your divorce from Louis.’

  Her face maintained its serenity. After some time she replied, ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’

  ‘I agree. I would hate my beautiful wife to be known as the mother of bastards.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You, Henry, are the bastard.’

  ‘No, I’m the King. I do what is necessary for the welfare of my subjects.’

  ‘All right,’ Eleanor muttered. ‘I’ll swallow Becket.’

  He seized her before she had time to escape and covered her neck with kisses. She struggled for a few moments, knowing resistance was futile. He picked her up and carried her to the bed.

  After some hours he asked, ‘How do I persuade Mother?’ He played with a lock of her hair.

  Ha! thought Eleanor. She gave a long, contented sigh and fell into a reverie. Henry took the opportunity to mount her again.

  As the sun was setting, golden light streamed through the windows along with the cries of gulls preparing to settle for the night. Eleanor turned onto her side to play with his hair. ‘Earlier we spoke of bastards,’ she mused. ‘Your mother is inordinately fond of your eldest son, Little Geoffrey. Why don’t you remove him from England to live near her in Rouen?’

  ‘He’s to study in Oxford.’

  ‘He can study in Paris. I’m sure Louis would accommodate him.’

  Vixen, thought the King. You’ve always feared I might have him legitimised and as my eldest so he could claim the throne. If he’s raised in France, it’s another blow I take for Becket.

  Next morning they parted amicably, and Henry returned to Rouen to confront ‘the Queen of all Queens’, as he thought of his mother.

  Matilda listened with one eyebrow raised as he proposed that his eldest son should return to Normandy ‘to keep you company’. The Empress closed her eyes, a smile of bliss softening her lips. Henry’s heart lurched as he remembered how he used to pester her, ‘Mama, do you love me? Do you love me more than my sister? Do you love me more than Papa?’ Her answer was always the same. ‘You’re the eldest. Of course I love you.’ Even then, he knew she lied.

  When the Empress decided to speak, she remarked, ‘So you will appoint Becket.’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘Do you think I’m so feeble-minded I don’t recognise your bribes? But to have Little Geoffrey beside me … To hell with Becket.’

  Henry’s moment of success in his struggle for appointing the head of the Church came at Easter, when he summoned a senior group to meet him in Normandy: Roger, Archbishop of York, Hugh of Durham, Robert of Lincoln and Hilary of Chichester. His kinsman, Gilbert Foliot of Hereford, refused the invitation, white with rage as he wrote in his own hand his rebuff.

  ‘England’s church has become a scandal,’ the King told the gathered prelates. ‘Deacons rob rich and poor alike. Priests rape women. There are murders. Church lands have fallen into the possession of greedy barons. The faithful fear the Second Coming, not as a glory, but as eternal punishment. Clergy use the fear they have sown in their minds as an excuse to extort “alms for the poor” that fall into their own pockets.’

  ‘You believe Becket’s pocket will be empty?’ York asked. ‘As Archdeacon, Highness, he extorts more money than you raise in taxes.’

  ‘Your Grace makes an interesting point. If the man in question were to be Archbishop but not Archdeacon …’

  The prelates withdrew to confer. On return, York announced, ‘We could live with that.’

  Henry remarked, ‘I wonder if Thomas can.’ Everyone laughed.

  Becket meanwhile had done as the King commanded.

  England’s aristocracy, summoned to Westminster Palace, arrived week by week to pay homage to the six-year-old Prince. Rich young men and elderly earls kneeled before him to pledge their lives to his service. The boy placed warm, soft paws on either side of hard hands and repeated a phrase his surrogate father had drilled into him: ‘Arise, noble soul, with my love and the blessing of Mother Church.’

  But the mood among the baronage was glum. ‘Henry is preparing to abandon us,’ one magnate said. ‘Across the Narrow Sea he has to defend four times as much territory as here.’

  ‘The new Queen of France hates him,’ said another. ‘Henry and Louis made a truce but it can’t last, not with a vengeful Queen. It’ll be war, war, and war for our Henry.’

  ‘But Louis’ daughter Marguerite will be England’s next queen. Surely …?’

  They had gathered in the London mansion house of a baron from Cornwall. He laughed. ‘Marguerite is the child of the French Queen who died. The new one won’t give a fig for her. She’ll persuade Louis that his Princess is of no consequence. She was never more than a pawn. Henry won her from Louis with his honeyed tongue, to seize back the Norman Vexin. He played Louis for the fool he is.’

  A young baron who loved the King said, ‘So why is His Highness allowing Becket …?’

  They fell silent. After a while the Cornishman said, ‘Becket is our Henry’s creature. The King was determined to reform the law and the currency, and he succeeded. The whole world trusts the value of English pennies. His next challenge is the Church. And not before time. In my villages I have women raped by priests, and merchants robbed. I went in person to the sheriff to protest for one of my vassals. He could do nothing.’

  ‘Roman law! The Church’s courts are sewers.’ The speaker was a northerner, with northern manners. He spat on the rug.

  ‘Since Theobald fell il
l, clergy crimes have increased.’

  The discussion ended with agreement that Becket, though objectionable as a human being, would be good for England as a scourge on the backs of criminous clerks.

  Having persuaded the prelates to accept the Chancellor as Archbishop, Henry was about to summon the man himself to France, where he planned a banquet of great magnificence to which he would invite all senior clergy and the most prestigious magnates. But before he ordered Becket’s presence, two letters came, one from his mother, the other from his wife. Matilda told him, Son, Becket is neither worthy nor reliable. As I’ve told you before, his mouth is butter, his heart is poison. Eleanor wrote, Dearest husband, I fear for our family if Bec takes the throne at Canterbury. You are convinced he’ll remain subservient to your will and apply himself to reforming the English church. I see signs that tell me otherwise. I feel in him a turmoil of emotions, including spiteful jealousy that, empowered, may endanger our House.

  Henry summoned Hamelin. ‘Well, Bullfrog, do I infuriate my mother and my wife, or do I make a fool of myself?’

  ‘Women never forget an insult, but you’ve gone too far to retreat.’

  Richard was seated in a corner, constructing a word puzzle for the King. ‘Sire, he could have an accident, like your great-uncle King William Rufus, who was shot through the neck.’ He glanced at Hamelin. ‘Your brother, sire, is as fine a bowman as Sagittarius.’

  ‘I’ll kill no man,’ Hamelin rumbled. It was a vow made when he became a merlin.

  The King ordered his English Chancellor to meet him in the castle of Falaise. This huge fortress, covering a hilltop in the Norman countryside, strummed on Henry’s heart strings. He never tired of leading visitors to a balcony to recount the story: ‘From here my ancestor, Duke Robert the Magnificent, looked out one afternoon and saw a girl dancing bare-legged in that cornfield. She was Arlette, daughter of the local embalmer. Invited to the castle, that very night she conceived a child she called William. He grew into the warrior who conquered England.’ He would smile at the fields. ‘I feel a special atmosphere of abundance and joie de vivre surrounds me in Falaise. Look, there’s the valley of the River Ante. In summer its plains sway with corn and flax. Every time I look out on them I imagine a girl dancing in the sunshine.’