Hamelin cocked his head to one side, the way the King sometimes did. ‘For a highly intelligent person, you can be very stupid.’ He wrenched the box from Richard’s grasp. The young knight stared sullenly at the merlin. Hamelin seemed to be considering whether he was worthy of an explanation. Abruptly he decided. ‘Have you imagined the effect on the lady of Warenne if you give her William’s parting gift of love? She’d go mad with grief.’
‘I did wonder,’ Richard murmured.
‘Stop wondering. You’re the witness to his death. By the time we reach the royal manor, you will have your story perfect in every detail.’ He jerked his head towards a small group of horses caparisoned in the King’s livery.
When they arrived two days later, Hamelin ordered, ‘Go to the King.’ He strode away, carrying the box.
The chamber was lit by a few candles and a single torch in a sconce, but even in the dim light Richard saw that the monarch’s eyes were red from weeping. He fell to his knees. ‘Sire, Lord William sent me and Brito on an errand while he took a bath. When we returned—’
‘Tell me it was not the dagger I awarded him when I made him Normandy’s Seneschal.’
‘It was that dagger, sire.’
‘We are cursed!’
From a dark corner, another voice spoke. ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ The Queen rose and moved into the light. ‘You and I, Richard, have the task of telling the Countess that William is dead. Before we do, you are to recite to me exactly what you’ll say to her.’
He recounted the story of a hard day’s work, a banquet, a celebration with mead for the three of them that evening, a long bath, more mead, then William’s death, alone and unseen in the bath chamber.
As he spoke, the King stood shaking his head. ‘All thanks to Bec.’
Eleanor shot him a look of fury before turning to stare at Richard. ‘Well, young man, I think that will do.’ She flicked her hand at him to leave. ‘Where’s William’s body?’ she asked her husband.
‘In the snow cave at the palace. He asked to be buried in Anjou, near our father, and his intestines in Normandy, next to the grave our mother has chosen for herself. The Lout and Brito are to arrange everything. You, Eleanor, will represent me.’
‘Can you not come, Henry?’
‘No, I can’t!’
The Queen, escorted by Hamelin, Richard and twenty knights, set out to call on the Countess of Surrey. Eleanor and Richard knew the county well, but Hamelin had seen it only fleetingly, years earlier, during the civil war, when his attention was focused on features of the land that could hold ambushes, and areas for the rebels to forage and bivouac. Now he rode slowly, his one sighted eye alight with pleasure at the beauty of the landscape.
Eleanor glanced at her brother-in-law, with whom her bond was deep. Not for the first time, she thought: So many of you dead too young. Now you are the oldest, the tallest, and despite your blind eye, the most beautiful.
‘Brother, when we arrive, would you mind speaking first?’ she asked.
He replied with a grave nod.
Isabel came to greet them at the oak doorway of her manor house. She was robed in two shades of lavender. Amethysts set a few inches back from her forehead held a veil that fell over her shoulders and down her back. Her smile froze when she saw that they all wore black.
The merlin led her to a couch. ‘My lady, I see you have insight into our dreadful news.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘Just days ago. An accident. He drowned.’
She nodded, her face blank.
‘His body is to be buried in Anjou.’
‘I’d like to come.’
Eleanor inclined her head graciously. ‘I so hoped you would, my dear. The King is devastated, but cannot leave England. I shall represent him.’ She turned with a melancholy glance. ‘Hamelin will escort us. He and William were very close.’
The Countess nodded wordlessly. ‘I knew he’d die. I want to, also. Perhaps after his burial I shall. Perhaps the Lord will be merciful, and take me to be with him.’
Richard began to quiver but controlled himself when Hamelin glared at him. The merlin rumbled, ‘Your heart is twice broken. I believe a time approaches for you to live in joy, my lady.’
‘Thank you, Hamelin. You were very kind to me after …’
They declined her invitation to take dinner. Dispirited, they rode back through the gorgeous landscape, barely seeing it. Before they left, it had been agreed that at the end of the week the Countess would meet Eleanor, Hamelin and Richard in Southampton. ‘We’ll have the Esnecca,’ the Queen said.
In Rouen, Richard de Brito had engaged an embalmer to remove William’s intestines, which the man did with ingenuity, even taking the brain from the skull through a small, wedge-shaped cut he made in the back of the head. Everything, including William’s eyes and mouth, tongue and oesophagus, he drew out and stuffed or wrapped with linen soaked in embalming herbs.
Brito, as ill-favoured as he was brave, had thick brows meeting above the bridge of his short, broad nose. His mouth was wide and generous with red lips. He did not move for the hours it took to disembowel and embalm his lord. ‘Nice work gettin’ all that blood out of him,’ the man said. ‘He’ll stink by the time you get ’im to Anjou, but not much. Not with these medicines.’ For a third or fourth time he glanced at the bandages around the Viscount’s wrists.
‘My partner and I did that, when we found him drowned. We had to drain blood from him to lift him from the bath.’
The man nodded. He had turned his attention to forming from William’s organs a human shape, wrapped in strips of linen. The brain, eyes, tongue and oesophagus he formed into a head; the lungs became arms; the liver, stomach and other digestive organs made a torso and the intestines he separated to shape a pair of legs with small, upturned feet at their ends.
‘You’ve earned a drink,’ Brito said.
It was dark when they reached a tavern on the docks. The embalmer, after a handsome fee and several glasses of cider, became talkative, glancing up from time to time at a high shelf were the tavern keeper had stored a precious jar of mead. You’ve been paid handsomely, Brito thought. I’m not buying you mead. The man was saying, ‘You know, sir, there was no water in his lungs. With a drowning, I have to squeeze the lungs hard to get the water out. But he had neither water nor much blood inside him.’
‘Are you suggesting something unusual?’
The embalmer whispered, ‘I’d say he was murdered, sir. Could have been some Frenchman. Sees the Duke has left and his brother is staying in the town, no guards – beg your pardon, sir – and he takes his chance. Nasty work, murder.’
Brito sat back with a jolt before leaning forward to whisper, ‘Surely not!’
The embalmer tapped the side of his nose. ‘Murdered – or, God forbid, done it ’imself.’
Brito crossed himself. ‘Dear Lord! You won’t tell a soul, will you? I was meant to guard him, but I got drunk …’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I had to tell you. I’ve been embalming these twenty years. The only ones I’ve seen without blood—’
The knight held up his hand. ‘Say no more.’ He shook himself all over, like a dog shaking water from its coat. ‘I need some fresh air.’ He flicked coins for their drinks onto the table.
‘I’m sorry I’ve upset you, sir.’
‘I may have to answer with my life.’
Brito made for the door, holding it open for the embalmer to follow. A dozen ships rode at anchor but the docks were empty except for a few sailors who’d been drinking all afternoon and were singing in the dark. He walked towards the end of the wharf, where there were no ships, and suddenly doubled over, retching.
‘Oh, sir, I’ve made you ill,’ the embalmer said. He placed a comforting hand on the knight’s back.
Brito returned alone to the tavern and downed a cup of mead.
After the Queen had called on the Countess, a letter, written not by the King but by the brothel master Ranulf de Broc,
was brought to Canterbury Cathedral. The knight sullenly gave up his sword to a priest but insisted he would deliver the letter himself to the hand of the Archbishop, his manner so ominous the priest gave way. Ranulf stood, legs splayed, hands clasped behind his back, wearing a ferocious expression of contempt as Thomas, at first offhandedly, then with intense concentration, read the brief message. Herbert of Bosham stood peering over his shoulder. The Archbishop’s hands trembled.
‘S-s-so young. This is a tragedy for the King.’
‘You, Archbishop, are a piece of shit.’
Herbert exclaimed, ‘How dare you …!’
‘I’d dare to break your fucking neck, you spineless quinny.’
‘Get out!’ Becket ordered. ‘You sully this tragedy with your filthy tongue.’
‘My filthy tongue?’ Broc laughed. ‘How many arseholes has yours licked, Bec?’
Thomas turned to Herbert. ‘Kindly summon the Archdeacon and twenty monks. This man is to be ejected from my presence and from these sacred grounds.’
As Bosham moved towards the door, Broc said, ‘Don’t bother, chouchou. I’ve done what I came to do.’ He slammed it so hard a crucifix fell off the wall.
Becket covered his face with his hands. ‘H-H-Herbie, you know what this means? You know who that man was?’
‘He was vile.’
‘He’s a royal steward who owns a house here in Canterbury. He has an equally vile and violent kinsman, Robert. Both are fanatically loyal to the King. But this death, Herbie …’ Suddenly he started to weep. ‘William was gorgeous! He was full of vitality and laughter, a golden glow on him. He reminded me of Henry as a youth.’
Bosham looked put out. ‘I thought the Plantagenet men were of sterner stuff. Dying of a broken heart, over a woman eleven years his senior? Really, Lord Archbishop, you don’t believe that, do you? He probably fell off a horse.’
Becket was not listening. ‘Henry blames me. That’s why he had that dreadful minion deliver the news instead of writing himself. And of course, what really enrages him is that he’s lost the chance of grabbing the heiress’s money. He’ll have to marry her to someone else, or she’ll enter a nunnery. Henry won’t have her gold to battle Louis. How he’ll hate that!’
‘Perhaps, sir, we should prepare to leave for France.’
Becket’s mind was preoccupied. ‘We must proceed cautiously,’ he murmured.
‘Indeed, my lord. He may accuse you of—’
The Archbishop was suddenly attentive. ‘Of what!’
‘Causing the death of the Viscount.’
‘An outrageous suggestion! I acted out of duty as leader of the Church. They were sixth cousins. The Pope himself upheld my ruling. How on earth could Henry accuse me of causing his brother’s death without drawing attention to his own illegal union? What on earth would he do?’
‘If I remember my history from the civil war, troubadour songs promoted Henry. They began in France, crossed to England and were sung in every tavern.’
Becket hummed the opening bar of the best-known song, ‘A Young Lion’, then laughed to himself. ‘Henry doesn’t have a musical bone in his body. He bellows like a bull. It would never occur to him.’
Eleanor was closeted with Hamelin. The following day, Richard took ship for Rouen, during the voyage singing a ballad about a young nobleman forbidden his one true love, a beautiful countess. The last line revealed that he died of a broken heart, his blood on the hands of a jealous priest.
Two days later, the Queen and Isabel, escorted by Hamelin, sailed for Barfleur, followed by a tiring journey inland to Le Mans. Richard and Brito were among the one hundred knights Henry had chosen to accompany William’s body on its journey from Rouen.
When they arrived in Le Mans, it was a cold, windy day. A crypt in the cathedral had been prepared beside that of the Viscount’s father, the old Duke of Normandy. The effigy of Jeffroi le Bel was in full armour, the visor on his helmet lifted to show the beauty of his face. Eleanor wept openly as William was lowered into the stone vault next to his father. Her small hand grasped Isabel’s. ‘You don’t weep?’ she murmured.
‘I have no tears left.’
At the end of the service, Richard de Brito addressed the Countess. ‘My lady, it would be my honour to serve you in England.’
‘I accept,’ she said.
Brito glanced at his namesake. ‘You, Richard?’
Richard dried his eyes. ‘The King may welcome me back to court.’
Hamelin escorted the women to the coast, and their ship, while the knights rode north for the burial of William’s entrails. The Empress stood beside the grave she had chosen for herself in the grounds of her house of refuge. Next to it the earth was broken open for her son.
She threw the first handful of dirt over his remains. ‘Two husbands. Two sons,’ she murmured. ‘But from me, a line of kings.’ Her chin lifted. Her eyes were dry.
Across the Narrow Sea, against the advice of the eruditi, Becket sent an encyclical to all churches in England that ‘The Jealous Priest’, as the ballad became known, was to be banned in taverns, in the streets and at private singing parties. It is an insult to Mother Church and her faithful sons, the clergy, he wrote. Those who break this ban shall incur punishment for blasphemy.
A group of travelling players turned the song into a theatre piece in which the lyrics were not sung, only the tune hummed, a humming that whole audiences took up, smiling through their tears at the tragedy they beheld, the noble youth farewelling his forbidden love while a hideous black-clad figure sniggered in the background.
Becket sent Herbert and another of the scholars in the disguise of merchants to observe. They returned to Canterbury looking doleful. ‘Do they name William?’ he demanded. ‘Do they name me?’
‘They whisper that it is a true story about the King’s younger brother and the Countess of Surrey.’
‘So my name is not sullied?’ They shook their heads. ‘But it will be. This is Henry’s doing. He knows the common people love me. His revenge is to turn them against me.’
Herbert of Bosham frowned. ‘My lord, from what we hear, the King knows nothing about it.’
Becket snorted. ‘You have no idea of his cunning. I ban a song. He gets it turned into a tragedy for the stage …’
The scholars nodded. ‘As you say, my lord, we must proceed cautiously.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Through one excuse after another, the Archbishop of Canterbury had delayed holding a coronation that would elevate the Crown Prince to Young King, and his little French wife to Young Queen.
Henry summoned Beaumont and de Lucy. ‘Becket promised me that as soon as he was on the throne of Canterbury he’d have my son crowned. He seems to have no intention of keeping his word. First he bans William’s marriage to the lady of Warenne, knowing I’m in need of her dowry for war – a ban that puts my own marriage and the legitimacy of my children in doubt. Now he goes further by undermining my relations with France, making war more likely. Louis complains to every bishop, even to Alexander, that I act in bad faith by not elevating his daughter to Young Queen of England. The Champagne girl encourages her husband to see in me every vice she can imagine.’ He stared balefully at his justiciars. ‘When was the last time an Archbishop of Canterbury interfered in the Crown’s foreign policy?’
‘I don’t know there was a last time,’ Beaumont said.
‘Robert, he knows I have rebellion again in Wales. The security of my subjects must take priority over the safety of my vassals across the Narrow Sea. But he pushes me towards a war with France.’
De Lucy frowned. ‘Is it possible he acts from a deranged sense of authority, without understanding the broader implications of his actions?’
There was silence, broken at last by the King. ‘His mind is shallow. All this may be nothing more than spite.’
‘He believes you spread a calumny against him with a tavern song. He asserts the song is blasphemous and pertains to religion, and has banned it.’
‘He has no right to promulgate such a law! That right belongs to me.’ Henry broke in two the quill he held.
When the justiciars left, Beaumont beckoned de Lucy to follow him to his own audience chamber. ‘My dear, you and I – and the Queen, if we can persuade her now she’s back from Anjou – must do everything we can to calm Henry. I believe he suffers guilty anguish for William’s death. He knew the union was illegal according to canon law. He tried to force his will on Alexander, but failed. His feelings are too raw to acknowledge, so instead he convinces himself that Becket acts from malice, rather than from clumsy ignorance and lack of politesse.’
‘God save us – because if Becket acts thus, so does the Queen,’ his colleague replied. Beaumont’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Eleanor wrote the lyrics of “The Jealous Priest”. The merlin composed the tune. I had it from her own lips.’
‘We approach a stalemate. A few more moves and it could be checkmate.’
De Lucy groaned. ‘But which king?’
Beaumont, who never lost his temper and rarely raised his voice, shouted, ‘The black one! The Archbishop!’
Earlier that year, at Alexander’s first council, held in Tours, Becket had travelled like a king. The politically insecure Pope had treated him with a warmth that verged on deference. He had risen from his throne to come forward and embrace the English prelate; he had seated him at his right hand; he had not, like others, grimaced at Becket’s poor Latin but had throughout the conference behaved with dignified charm to his guest. ‘His Holiness likes me,’ Thomas announced to the scholars.
Soon afterwards Becket dined with Louis and was seen much in the company of the King of France. He then called in person on Alexander, with the intention of asking the Holy Father to suspend the right of the Archbishop of York to have his cross carried before him in the south of England. This time the Pontiff was less effusive in greeting his guest. Thomas decided to change tactics and spoke first against his King. ‘I must alert you, Holiness, to alarming news from England. Our monarch intends to return to customs and traditions from the past. He’s determined to strip clergy of their right to avoid trial in the royal courts. Scores of our men are at risk, Holy Father.’ Finally he turned to the rivalry between Canterbury and York.
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