The Lions' Torment

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  When the new knight stood, the King handed him the sword. ‘It’s yours. It’s old, but one of the sharpest blades in the armoury. Look after it.’ Richard gazed with love at the sword’s hilt, inlaid with lapis lazuli. In Norman French Henry announced, ‘This weapon, forged in Jerusalem, was captured in the Second Crusade.’ There was excited applause. ‘Bring wine. We’ll toast Sir Richard.’

  The knight gently laid his sword on the flagstones and began to dance, round and round, turning in one direction, his robe spinning in a wheel that circled his legs. His left hand was raised above his head, palm softly open, while his right hung towards the floor in the same supple gesture. His slender body radiated joy. The company was entranced, anticipating that at any moment giddiness would make him fall. Even Eleanor held her breath.

  Hamelin watched quizzically. When the dance ended, he rumbled, ‘Did you learn that as a child?’

  Richard shrugged. ‘It’s just something I can do.’

  That night Henry asked his brother, ‘What was that strange dance the Lout did this afternoon?’

  ‘It’s a pagan ritual that symbolises heaven’s blessings on earth. His Father travelled the world before returning to settle in the marcher lands. He must have seen it somewhere and danced it for his children, before he had to flee England. The brute left Richard to starve when he was only six years old.’

  ‘My new knight is a survivor,’ Henry said thoughtfully.

  A post rider had already left Canterbury, arriving in Montpellier at the end of June. His Holiness was pacing along its cloister a church outside the town that perched on a cliff and caught some of the refreshing breeze of the Middle Sea. He was not alone, but in company with the chief rabbi of the large colony of Jews in Montpellier. They walked together, one in robes of white, the other in black, discussing how the Pentateuch should be translated. The rabbi claimed the Latin for elohim was inaccurate. He gave lengthy examples of how the word could be expressed. ‘But all miss the mark.’

  ‘I find what you say most interesting, Eminence, given Pope Gregory’s decretal that the Roman Church has never erred, not will it err to all eternity.’

  The rabbi sighed. ‘A pagan language cannot express the concepts of a sacred one. It’s like thrusting a horse’s hoof into a silken shoe.’

  Alexander, who knew enough Hebrew to be aware that elohim was plural, was beginning to lose patience. When the sweaty post rider was conducted to the cloister, he said, ‘This appears to be urgent.’ He half smiled. ‘In addition to its translations from Hebrew to Latin, the Church must exercise power.’

  The rabbi gave a faint smile. ‘We Jews don’t suffer that burden.’

  Alexander took Becket’s petition to the cool of his private chamber, where a window looked directly over the sea. In the morning it was cornflower blue, by noon, sapphire, and late in the afternoon it darkened to the colour of lapis. He read the petition twice.

  His private secretary asked, ‘What does he want?’

  ‘That I overturn one of my own rulings of last year. I issued a bull permitting the Archbishop of York to crown the Young King of England. Becket asks for it to be nullified, since he is head of England’s Mother Church. The impertinence! In his next breath he humbly requests that I bestow on him the pallium.’

  The secretary, also from Siena, chuckled.

  ‘I refuse the first, but grant the second.’

  ‘Excellent balance, Holiness.’

  A week later, Sir Richard of Bath arrived with a packhorse and a groom. Days earlier, he had broken the royal seal, read the King’s letter, rewritten it and, with one of the many counterfeit seals he possessed, pressed the initials HR into wax he carried with him.

  By now, summer’s hammer battered the church near Montpellier and made a blinding glitter of the Middle Sea. Richard handed his letter to a priest and waited in the same cloister where Alexander took his long morning walks. The intensity and variety of the colours of the south delighted the knight. He spent his waiting time studying flowers, insects, the roofs of houses in the town, and the sea sparkling with thousands of tiny suns. Shadows lengthened and the bay darkened to a colour that reminded Richard of the inlay of his sword and the handle of William’s dagger.

  His Holiness appeared. Richard immediately kneeled on the limestone paving, his head bent. He knew the effect he created on both males and females when suddenly he raised his smiling face, lubricious pink lips slightly parted, eyes open wide as if seeing a vision. He unbuckled his sword belt and, using both hands, raised the sword as an offering to the Pope.

  ‘Get up, young man,’ Alexander said. In spite of himself, he smiled. ‘Your sword comes from Outremer, I see.’

  ‘My sire fought in the Second Crusade, but unhappily he lies in a foreign grave. This captured sword is all I have to remember him, Holy Father.’

  The Pope gave a nod of sympathy. ‘I’ve reflected upon the letter from your liege. It raises issues of great concern to both the Church and me personally, since I know King Henry and like him well. How long have you been in his service, Sir Richard?’

  ‘Since his first day as England’s King.’

  His Latin was so perfectly enunciated that Alexander paused. ‘And before then?’

  ‘I was personal scribe to the Archdeacon of Canterbury, now our Lord Archbishop.’

  The Pope nodded again. ‘You know the Archbishop well?’

  ‘Intimately, Your Holiness.’

  The calm expression of the Sienese did not change. ‘By which you mean …?’

  Richard bent his head again. He gulped. ‘I was an orphan, Father. I had no one to guard or guide me.’ His breath became ragged.

  A frown appeared on the serene visage. Richard covered his face with his hands and moaned. The private secretary looked from the visitor to his Holiness with increasing alarm.

  ‘Please do not waste the Holy Father’s time,’ he said sharply.

  ‘I was his favourite catamite,’ Richard whispered.

  ‘The Archbishop has publicly confessed to the shortcomings of his life as a courtier. He regretted he was a patron of stage actors.’

  ‘Yes, Holiness. But still he lusts after men.’

  ‘By what right do you make such an accusation?’ The tone was still smooth, but it was the treacherous smoothness of pond ice.

  Richard said, ‘Because, Father, I saw with my own eyes his lust for Lord William, the King’s brother, whose marriage he now wishes to forbid.’

  ‘He forbids the marriage on proper grounds. There’s no case for your liege to argue.’

  Richard sighed heavily. ‘And my liege …?’

  ‘A question you should not ask, young man. My reply is contained in this private letter.’

  Richard looked appealingly at the secretary. ‘I got lost coming in here, sir. Would you be so kind …?’

  When they were out of earshot of the Pope, Richard whispered, ‘Before I went to Canterbury, I was the code-breaker in the court of King Stephen and later King Henry. There is something I did not dare tell our Holy Father, for it would trouble his heart. I will tell you, however: our Archbishop writes in code to the Emperor Barbarossa.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘We intercepted a letter. I’ve not yet had time to decipher all of it. But it speaks disrespectfully—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ The secretary pointed to the spot where Richard’s mount, packhorse and groom waited. ‘Your horses have been fed and watered and the servant given food and drink.’

  Richard turned to gaze into the older man’s face. He grasped both of the secretary’s soft hands between his. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you,’ he breathed. ‘My heart is so grieved for Lord William, for my liege, for His Holiness …’

  ‘There’s no cause for distress about your liege.’

  Richard stopped walking. He was slightly taller than the middle-aged secretary. ‘May the Lord bless you and keep you and be gracious unto you, sir.’ Finally the secretary smiled.

  ‘Can we trust what he says?
’ Alexander asked. ‘He’s as beautiful as Lucifer and as guileful, I suspect.’

  ‘He showed piety.’

  ‘Did you ask him to contact you when he has deciphered the letter?’

  ‘I considered it, but decided it would be improper.’

  ‘Quite. But there is something I don’t understand. By every account, the King and his Chancellor enjoyed a tender relationship for years. It ended suddenly. No bishop can explain to me why.’ They conversed in their local dialect.

  The secretary said diffidently, ‘Father, there are rumours …’

  Alexander held up a hand. Both men were silent and thoughtful as they entered the chapel for vespers.

  Richard rode into town, anticipating the pleasure of hiring two women for the night. Next morning, when the light was bright in his tavern chamber, he broke the seal on the papal letter and unrolled it. As he had guessed, it assured Henry that his union with Eleanor and their ‘numerous offspring’ were, in the eyes of the papacy, ‘legitimate’. But the Pope upheld the Archbishop’s warning against the marriage of William and Isabel.

  After three weeks’ travel, he found Henry in a castle in Brittany. Hamelin was with him. Henry looked at the broken seal, then glanced at Richard’s face. He ran his eye quickly over the letter. Hamelin said, ‘I’ll tell William.’

  Henry shook his head. ‘I refuse to give up yet. What lies did you invent for His Holiness, Sir Lout?’

  Richard said cheerfully, ‘That Bec lusts after William, and for that reason forbids the marriage. Not really a lie.’

  ‘And not Bec’s motive.’ Henry glowered. ‘His plan is to weaken our family. He may try to have me overthrown. As regent, he would rule England, instructing my Crown Prince in every decision.’

  ‘I also told his secretary that Bec secretly writes to Barbarossa, hinting at disrespectful remarks about His Holiness.’

  ‘That’s more promising. Since you’ve been away, we’ve had a diplomatic coup with Louis.’ Henry turned to Hamelin.

  He said, ‘I found the French Queen’s puppy in Chaumont and William delivered it to her in Paris. It wasn’t even a pure-bred hound, but some mongrel that had caught her eye at a fair. When William lifted it out of its basket, the King crossed himself and said a prayer of thanks. The Queen cried with joy.’ He held out his long, elegant hand. A ring set with a garnet gleamed on his index finger.

  ‘She gave you that, Hamelin? For a mongrel pup?’

  ‘Louis gave it to William, who considered it belonged to me. Obviously she’s driving Louis mad.’ He added, ‘The royal physician has told him that the best times to get Adela with child are spring and summer.’

  ‘He must stay with his wife for the whole campaign season,’ Henry said. ‘Our truce made in Fréteval will hold. She’s not yet pregnant.’

  Richard noted the quick sideways glance Hamelin gave his brother.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  In the height of summer, two papal legates arrived at Canterbury bearing the pallium.

  The Archbishop sent the instruction: ‘All monks, priests, lower clergy and clerks from the scriptorium are to witness a great event.’ His friend John of Salisbury was awarded a position in the front row.

  Becket entered the cathedral barefoot to prostrate himself on the floor before the emissaries of the Holy Father. When he stood, they draped the scarf over his shoulders, a strip of very fine white wool. He stroked it voluptuously. ‘Softer than the most tender young skin,’ he murmured. He wept a little as he lifted it to lay it on the altar, where he gave thanks before taking it up again, kissing it and once more allowing the legates to lower it over his head. Finally, I win! he exulted. Finally, Henry, I am more powerful than you. He was unable to resist touching the embroidered cross at the edge that hung down the front of his chest. As he fingered the embroidery, bells boomed out a psalm of David: Praise the Almighty!

  After a celebratory feast that evening, the Archbishop called his secretary, Master Ernulf, to his bedchamber. In his hand was the Great Seal of England’s Chancellor, made of fine-cut marble. ‘You’re to take this to France,’ he said. ‘And take down this letter: “My dear Henry, I feel I can no longer be both Archbishop of Canterbury and Chancellor. I therefore resign the post you conferred on me seven years ago.”’ His brown eyes blazed. ‘FREE!’ he exclaimed so loudly Ernulf jumped. ‘The slave is free! Don’t bother with Latin. Use English.’

  ‘My lord, that is against the tradition.’

  ‘Too bad.’ As Becket held out the Great Seal, he allowed it to drop to the floor. ‘It could have broken,’ Ernulf said.

  ‘I wish it had.’

  Master Ernulf delivered his package to Henry in Rouen. The audience chamber was noisy with courtiers, petitioners, sheriffs and churls. The King said nothing as he looked at what the parcel contained and read the letter. Master Ernulf trembled within, wondering if he would sail home in a stinking smack crewed by outlaws.

  Gradually the hall fell silent as those present felt the anger radiating from their lord. When there was not a whisper, Henry spoke.

  ‘The person who wrote this is no longer in need of money, I see. Although nobody has ever before had the temerity to offer me a diffidato, you are to tell him I recognise such an abominable object when I see one. Tell him I do not accept his attempt to renounce his vassalage to me. He is no longer England’s Chancellor. I decided that months ago. But he’s still my vassal. Now get out.’

  The hall hushed for a moment before erupting. Those who had understood the conversation, which was in English, explained to others, ‘The new Archbishop has issued our lord a warning that he now rejects his subordinate status. He intends to oppose England’s King.’ Their glances darted to Henry’s face. Not a muscle moved. With a flick of his hand he called forward a waiting petitioner and listened to his complaint. The well-ordered processes of the ducal court rolled on until dinner time.

  It was mid-August. Custom decreed a nap after dinner that lasted the remainder of the afternoon. At this time of year sleep was perfumed, like the sleep of souls in heaven. All Rouen smelled of apple blossom, its sweetness overpowering even the strong, sour smell of brewing from the tavern. People were happy. There had been no warfare, the season’s weather had been kind, the harvest would be plentiful, but the town, instead of sinking into soporific rest that for many would lead to lovemaking, was as restless as a hive, buzzing with gossip about the diffidato.

  Henry invited Hamelin to join him for the afternoon nap. The air in the ducal apartment was heavy, but cooler than other parts of the palace. A churl began placing shutters over its windows that would pitch it into darkness. ‘Stop,’ Hamelin said. ‘We want light and fresh air.’

  When the servant left, Henry opened his arms. Hamelin stepped into his embrace. ‘I feel sick,’ Henry said.

  ‘I noticed you barely ate.’ Hamelin stroked his brother’s back. In moments the King began to sob.

  ‘Everyone warned me,’ he wept. ‘Why didn’t you force me not to do it?’

  The merlin made a rumbling noise in his chest. ‘I saw it was something you would do, whatever others said.’

  ‘I’m guilty of hubris.’

  ‘To ordinary thinking, yes. But I see something …’ He hesitated. ‘Different forces.’

  ‘Benevolent?’

  ‘I wish you’d not asked that.’

  The King’s voice dropped to a murmur. ‘Why did my royal body, the Guardian, not overpower them?’

  ‘I wish you’d not asked that either.’

  ‘Are you saying the Guardian abandons me?’

  Hamelin shook his head. ‘There are forces stronger than he, brother.’

  Henry dropped his arms from Hamelin’s shoulders and flung himself face down on the bed. He was still wearing shoes. His brother removed them, and his own, then lay beside him. After a while Henry turned on his side to nestle his face into Hamelin’s neck, lying together as they used to in boyhood after Matilda had whipped him. The merlin began humming. In a few moments, Henr
y was asleep.

  He woke just before dusk, laughing at a dream. ‘Wake up, Magpie!’ he said. ‘I dreamed …’ He was still smiling, but abruptly stopped. ‘It’s gone! My dream has gone.’

  Hamelin’s eyes were still shut. Henry was not sure whether he was sleeping or awake. Gingerly he climbed out of bed. It was time for a bath. He had decided to invite his wife to lie with him after supper. She had been most agreeable since the appalling warning against William’s marriage. Her sweet temper had continued even after the Lout had brought news from Montpellier that their union was secure. Henry suspected she feared Queen Adela would give Louis an heir, ruining the chances of her own Crown Prince taking the French throne through his marriage to King Louis’ princess. He had the same concern himself, and now spies reported that Louis, though assuaged by the return of Adela’s puppy, was angry at the delay of his daughter’s coronation as Young Queen of England. His wife had been overheard to say, ‘What did you expect, my lord? That the Angevin would keep his word?’ Henry foresaw that as England’s queen, Princess Marguerite could become a weapon in Louis’ hand. It was a risk, but distant enough to put aside.

  Hamelin’s eyes fluttered open. ‘Enjoy the rest of this year with your wife,’ he murmured.

  After more than a decade of marriage, Henry and Eleanor still found in each other virtues and novelties they had not before detected. The royal couple, with a retinue of knights, sheriffs, hound masters, falconers and servants, travelled their domains, at times through woods so thick that for whole days the sun was hidden, only long shafts of green light penetrating here and there between the trees. In the forests they sensed but rarely glimpsed the teeming life of birds, insects, bats, reptiles, foxes and wolves, and the mysterious, soothing energy of plants that became menacing as night closed in.