The Lions' Torment

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  Becket said to his band of scholars, ‘Finally he comes to pay his respects to me.’

  ‘He begins to recognise your mightier status,’ they replied.

  ‘Fetch my foster son. The Sow will want to cuddle him.’ He flashed a smile to his laughing companions. ‘Make sure he’s dressed in gold and white to resemble an angel.’

  The ancient tree that stood in the courtyard outside the cathedral foamed with new leaves. Flocks of birds billowed through the sky, their abundance so marvellous they resembled the dark sails of a mighty ship that had escaped into the air. Riding to Canterbury the royal party had seen rivers glint with schools of fish, knobbly-kneed fawns holding close to the flanks of their dams, coneys scampering in fresh pasture, dragonflies hovering above ponds. Life came leaping from winter rest into the joy of activity, as if the earth herself welcomed the royal visitors. To mark the occasion both wore crowns. Eleanor’s was set with rubies to complement her scarlet gown. Her cheeks were rosy; a veil of gold covered her hair. She rode with the authority of a general. The eruditi who had not seen her up close before gaped in admiration. Despite himself, the Archbishop was awed.

  ‘Centuries of privilege,’ he murmured to Herbert, whom he noted with irritation was goggle-eyed. ‘Her lineage stretches back to Charlemagne. His to … who knows? They say to Arthur. But Arthur never existed.’

  ‘To King Cerdic,’ Herbert said. ‘Three hundred years before Emperor Charlemagne.’

  Becket pulled Herbert’s ear lobe. ‘You know too much. I think I’ll send you off to Oxford, to teach the masters.’

  ‘Everyone is looking at us,’ Bosham said.

  ‘This is my domain. If I want to pull your ear, I will. Where’s my foster son?’

  The Crown Prince was led forward. In the few months since his parents had last seen him, young Henry had grown. Becket said, ‘Darling boy, as soon as the King and Queen have dismounted, you are to rush forward calling, “Mama! Papa!” That’s an order.’

  ‘What, Father?’ Little Henry shouted against the noise of people applauding. The Archbishop repeated himself, but there was a sudden hush and his voice, often abrasive when he was nervous, was audible.

  Eleanor turned to Henry. ‘He says “That’s an order” to our son? This is insupportable.’

  The King’s face did not move. ‘Smile and wave,’ he muttered. ‘Here he comes. My angel!’ He scooped up the Prince and lifted him onto his shoulders. The child, taken by surprise, grabbed at his father’s hair, knocking his crown sideways. Henry laughed. He straightened his crown and a moment later grasped the boy again, holding one small arm and waving it to the crowd before setting his feet on the ground.

  The Prince ran to his mother, burying his face against her thigh.

  The rest of the visit went formally and without ill omen. The next day the two mightiest men in England rode to Dover. Henry chose a sure-footed mule for the steep descent to the beach, a groom leading a second one. Thomas mounted an impressive black charger, trained for galloping across flat terrain. Its descent of the hillside was tentative, made worse by its rider’s irritation with it. Several times it baulked while the King’s mule ambled down with delicate insouciance.

  When they had both arrived on the shingle, the Archbishop said, ‘I was rather hoping your brother William would visit me. Highness.’

  ‘His energies are occupied with our coming war against a Welsh prince. As you’re aware, I have a debt of gratitude to the marcher barons who supported me all those years ago against King Stephen. I must protect them now against Welsh raids.’

  ‘So Lord William serves Mars before he serves Venus?’

  Henry gave Becket a long, slow smile. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I thought he might be taken aback that I felt obliged to warn you against his marriage.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. I’ve found him a better match in Andaluse. More gold than Croesus. Young and not bad-looking.’

  ‘I rejoice to hear it. From your response to my letter, you seemed displeased.’

  ‘Displeased? Your emissary vomited on my shoes.’

  ‘He didn’t tell me!’

  ‘Nor, I suppose, that he lost control of his bladder?’

  Becket began to stammer. ‘Wh-wh-wh …?’

  ‘Pissed on the floor of the palace. And your letter.’

  ‘N-n-no!’

  ‘I was busy hearing a difficult case so didn’t read it. Richard did. He told me it was an insult to Willi and the Countess. I told him to cut it in two.’ Henry watched from the corner of his eye as Becket crossed himself.

  ‘I assure you I knew nothing of this.’

  ‘Have mercy on the fellow. He was half dead with seasickness and probably doesn’t remember. He was too ill to travel before the tide turned and your ship was forced to sail. The only transport to take him to England before nightfall was a fishing boat. Pretty rough crew, I heard. Look! He arrives. I’ve always liked this cousin.’

  The Count of Flanders’ huge-hoofed cream-coloured stallion leaped over the side of his ship and ambled ashore to wait for his master’s disembarkation along a gangplank. Henry spurred the mule. As it took off, pebbles flew up. One hit the Archbishop’s charger, which reared with a scream and turned to bolt. Only the sudden shock of white cliffs in front of it stopped a catastrophe. Becket got it under control, cursing. Henry and the Count meanwhile were laughing and slapping each other on the back.

  ‘I’ve got some lovely girls in London,’ Henry confided. ‘Ride back with me. We’ll re-sign the treaty there.’

  ‘In Flanders we have a saying: “A girl as lovely as one can meet in Henry’s court.”’

  The King chortled. ‘Heard anything from Paris?’

  ‘She’s not yet with child. She has temper fits and cries a lot. Her husband lies with her infrequently. Never on a Friday or a saint’s day; only when he believes holiness surrounds them. She’s told him she needs spasms to get a son, but the royal physician, who happens to be a priest, dismissed this as female harlotry.’

  ‘Personally, I wouldn’t lie with a washer girl without giving her spasms.’

  ‘I agree. And washer girls can be most delightful, don’t you find?’ They laughed again.

  ‘By the way,’ Henry said. ‘Have you considered using Welshmen as mercenaries?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of such people. What I want to know is how you put a stop to coin-cutting.’

  ‘England had hundreds of moneyers. I announced that their number would be reduced to four. I waited a little then announced that only one institution would issue coin: the Crown.’ Henry gave a grim laugh. ‘The moneyers fomented a riot, but merchants and my more intelligent barons quickly understood the value of true coin.’ He grinned at his companion. ‘England now makes a lot of money from trade with Flanders.’

  ‘For every important transaction we use English pennies. It gives you great advantage in war, Henry. Everyone wants your silver pennies as payment.’

  The King’s smile was amiable. ‘I own the silver mines.’

  Earl Robert knew that the ride downhill to Dover beach would be too precipitous for him and had stayed at Canterbury with the Queen and the Crown Prince. Like her, he was alarmed by the child’s behaviour.

  ‘It seems he’s been indulged in every whim, dear lady, so his character is weakened.’

  ‘I could strangle my husband. I didn’t want our Crown Prince in Becket’s household. Henry insisted that the splendour with which he’d be surrounded would stand him in good stead later, when he’s monarch. But what is the outcome? He’s timid. No doubt Henry is too rough with him. He wants the child to show warrior spirit.’ She sighed.

  Beaumont patted her hand. ‘He’s very young, my dear. Perhaps by the age of ten …’

  She looked up. ‘Robert, you know as well as I that boy will never make a warrior. He’ll be charming and gracious. Thank heaven he’ll not have to fight to win his crown.’

  ‘The royal curia will ensure he has knights of the finest mettle to fi
ght for him.’

  ‘He may grow into leadership.’ Eleanor spoke without conviction. ‘At the moment it seems he has no interests beyond frivolity.’

  Beaumont considered before he replied. ‘The trouble is, he believes already he will never live up to the might of his sire, so he’s given up hope, as it were.’ He could not tell her that the King’s bastard, Geoffrey, had returned from Rouen and now stayed in his household; the boy showed both his father’s fighting spirit and his intelligence. He had already mastered the trivium – grammar, rhetoric and dialectic – and had begun to study the quadrivium of arithmetic, geometry, music and astronomy. He was ten years old. At twelve he’d be ready for Oxford.

  Eleanor said, ‘Little Henry’s earliest years on earth were disturbed. Robert, you remember that for months I was distraught at the death of my first son. I think Henry became timorous at that time. I kept away from him. I kept away from everyone. The virgin gold of an infant’s heart can be imprinted for life by such terrors.’

  He took her hand between his. ‘My dear, the imprint can be erased. Have faith.’

  ‘I pray for it,’ she replied. Both had the same dreadful thought: Young Henry’s character would grow only when the shadow of his father vanished and the boy had space to spread his wings and by then it would be too late. His subjects would despise him.

  The King and the Count of Flanders set out for London with a guard of knights, leaving Eleanor and the Earl behind in Canterbury to spend more time with the Crown Prince. Henry had decided to break their journey at Leeds Castle. Eighty years earlier it had been a Norman fortress surrounded by a moat, but since then it had expanded into a luxurious chateau with swans floating around its lake, while in its spreading gardens fragrant clumps of daffodils and all kinds of other flowers blossomed.

  They traversed a greenwood, the trees already so vital with leaf it seemed a secret cave, a world of enchantment. As they entered daylight again, they saw a stone church on the summit of a hill. ‘Truly, Henry, your realm is blessed,’ the Count said. ‘Such beauty, such abundance. I’d like to visit that little church.’

  Their knights opened a small gate in the fence around the churchyard, where old tombstones lurched behind graves. The church was of rustic simplicity, whitewashed inside, and empty, but on seeing men approach, its verger hurried through a postern to light candles on the altar and place cushions on the floor.

  When they rose, Henry asked, ‘Where’s your priest?’

  ‘Visiting the parishioners, my lord.’ The man had not recognised the King. ‘He’s getting to know them.’

  ‘New, is he?’

  ‘Yes, lord. He arrived only recently.’

  Henry looked hard at the old, lined face, the worried eyes.

  ‘You seem troubled, verger. I am Henry, your King.’

  The man fell to his knees. ‘Forgive me, sire. I don’t get out much. I didn’t …’

  ‘Something in your parish causes unease. I perceive it.’

  The verger glanced at the Count of Flanders.

  ‘He can’t understand what we’re saying. He’s a foreigner.’ Henry turned to the Count, ‘Forgive me, cousin. There’s a small problem.’

  The Count strolled outside to read the Latin inscriptions still legible on the tombstones. Henry stared down at the verger. ‘Speak, man. I command you.’

  The verger trembled. ‘If the priest returns and finds me talking to you, sire …’

  ‘You value a priest more highly than your monarch?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. It’s just …’

  ‘Who is this fellow?’

  ‘That’s the trouble. We don’t know. The people don’t like him. Some women say he was in the parish of Highhops, near Dover, and you, sire, had him arrested.’

  ‘Have there been any rapes in this village since the priest arrived?’

  The verger shook his head. ‘He’s very kind. He even scythes the hay for widows if they can’t find a man to do it. It has caused arguments.’

  ‘That he scythes hay?’

  ‘That he was the priest in Highhops. Half the congregation believe it. They won’t come to church.’

  ‘But there’s been no violence against women, you say?’

  ‘No, sire. Though a little girl was found in a pond, dead a few days.’

  ‘She could have fallen in and drowned.’

  ‘But she was without clothes. And the day had been cool.’ The verger looked bewildered. ‘Also there were signs … bruises. Her hair ripped out.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A week or so ago.’

  ‘Is her mother a widow?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  Henry beckoned two knights. ‘You’re to remain here until the priest returns. When he does, you’re to inform him I wish audience with him. If he objects, arrest him. If he claims benefit of clergy, put him in irons. If he screams, gag him. If he threatens to excommunicate you, kick his shins. He can ride one of the packhorses.’

  The monarch walked out to find his Flemish visitor examining a headstone.

  ‘Cousin, this is remarkable! It’s from an age when there was a king of Kent.’

  ‘Good stone,’ Henry mumbled. Colour had mounted in his cheeks. ‘Philip, how can one govern a country when every sixth man claims benefit of clergy and evades punishment for heinous crimes?’

  ‘Our church is less assertive. We are like one family.’

  ‘It’s only ninety-odd years since my great-grandfather dismissed the native English bishops and replaced them with Normans. Since then there’s been endless friction in our family.’ Henry snorted. ‘Do you suffer benefit of clergy?’ His friend nodded. ‘Are you aware how this objectionable tradition originated?’

  ‘I assume the early Church fathers—’

  Henry cut him off. ‘At my court I have a brilliant linguist. I sent him first to Oxford, then to Paris and Chartres, where Roman records are more extensive. There he discovered that benefit of clergy was a privilege of the priests of Jupiter. When Constantine declared Christianity the religion of his empire, his new clergy demanded the same rights as those whom the Emperor had disempowered. Priests of Jupiter! As England’s King, my hands are tied by customs that come from pagan Rome. It’s infuriating.’

  The Count looked dumbfounded. ‘This is not well known, cousin.’

  ‘Of course it’s not! The Church keeps it secret.’ Henry noted that his visitor crossed himself. ‘My new Archbishop has allowed an evil man out of prison in Canterbury, where he was to be tried and defrocked. And now he’s priest of this parish. Already one girl is dead.’ He noted the doubt in Philip’s face, and smiled. ‘But before I accuse the Archbishop of breaking his word to me by allowing a criminous clerk to go unpunished …’ He waved a hand in the air dismissively. ‘You and I have some pleasant business to address.’

  Their solidarity and trade agreement was signed and the Count of Flanders left happy, having indulged with Henry’s young women every impulse he kept under rigid control at home. He had just left Westminster when the captured priest escaped and fled back to Canterbury, where Becket ordered he be shown nothing but kindness and courtesy. On hearing this, Henry flew into such a rage he tore his velvet hat in two and stamped on it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The treaty with Flanders was a triumph for both parties; expanded from its modest original, it was drawn up, signed and sealed in less than half a day. The following morning Henry, William and his shadow Sir Richard set out for Wales with their army.

  Riding from Canterbury came the Archbishop and his grand party of scholars and scribes, who would meet with the King and baronage at a Great Council in Woodstock. Becket had a long deposition from the escaped priest about the violent handling he’d suffered from royal knights, with black bruises on his shins to prove it.

  ‘The cross is my sword,’ he announced to his admirers. He shook the deposition. ‘This is my battleaxe.’ A long, tiring journey lay ahead, but the Archbishop was in carnival spirits. ‘The world
will be at Woodstock. And there, my men of great learning, all will realise that Henry Plantagenet is no longer master of this land. He can rave and shake his fist like the madman he is, but I’ll show them iron bows down before the might of gold.’ They cheered.

  The King meanwhile made a lightning raid on south Wales and captured its prince, Rhys ap Gruffydd. The Welsh rebellion collapsed. There had been one strange moment, however. Henry was about to ride away from the stronghold of Cantref Mawr when an old man sauntered directly in front of his stallion. The animal halted, snorting and shaking its head. With the speed of hares, William and Sir Richard were beside the King. The man glanced at their drawn swords, turned and spat on the ground. He had long white hair and a white beard that covered much of his chest.

  ‘What do you want?’ Henry glanced to Richard to translate, but the man spoke English.

  He said, ‘This nation, O King, may now as in former times be harassed and in great measure destroyed by your power and others that will also prevail in laudable exertions, but it can never be totally subdued through the wrath of man, unless the wrath of God concurs.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My clan is of the blood of Tewdor, great King. We men of Tewdor will fight you and those who come after you until not one drop of blood remains in our bodies. And we shall triumph over you, Roman, Dane, Norman, English – whatever you may be. One day we Welsh will rise up as one nation.’

  Henry cocked his head. ‘You’re a merlin, father?’

  ‘They call me such.’

  ‘Good day to you, merlin.’

  The King left the infantry behind to gallop with William, Richard and an escort of knights to Woodstock, in such high spirits that he whistled, jested and jumped his mount over huge fallen trees. Before leaving the west, he visited Clifford Castle, where he stayed the night. The chatelaine waved him off next morning, beside her a child with hair the colour of the cream that floats on the top of milk. ‘You’re the most beautiful damsel I’ve ever seen,’ he murmured. A flush of rose ebbed into her cheeks when he glanced at her. He kissed her mother’s hand, but turned again to the girl to stroke the flower-like face. Then he kissed his fingers and pressed them against small rosy lips. ‘I hope to meet you when you’re older, maiden.’