The Lions' Torment

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  Alexander listened closely but without comment until the end of the argument. ‘I advise you to return to England and to stay quietly in your see, performing your duties,’ he said. His assistant rose to show the Englishman out.

  When his secretary returned, Alexander said, ‘Apparently it does not occur to him that by calling in person on Louis, in truce but still technically at war with Henry, he opens himself to a charge of treason. He assumes his status makes him invulnerable.’ He glanced upwards. The sky was overcast but there was no rain. ‘Of course, it should. But as men who’ve studied law, Giovanni, we know that what should and what is can differ.’ They took a walk together through the cloisters, pacing slowly, each fingering his beads. ‘I conclude that he’s a fool. Or naïve. Which amounts to the same thing.’

  For Becket, the moment for settling the dispute with York was lost, but the issue continued to fester within the Church in England. Henry summoned the justiciars.

  ‘My Archbishop shows me a rent in his shining mantle of sanctity,’ he announced. ‘An irony, is it not, that it should be jealousy between two old friends.’

  He sent messengers throughout the kingdom announcing a traditional assembly of the Church at Westminster to settle the disagreement between the Archbishops of Canterbury and of York over protocol about their cross-bearers.

  Foliot, now Bishop of London, received the summons with a wry smile. He remarked to a deacon, ‘A church assembly about cross-bearers? Our monarch appears to use a hammer to kill a fly.’

  The deacon had studied in Bologna. ‘Perhaps, Father, there is something larger than a fly.’

  ‘I was rather of that opinion myself.’ Foliot hummed a few bars of ‘The Jealous Priest’.

  When the summons reached Becket, he exulted. ‘The King does my work for me! He flushes that putrid York into the open of a full church assembly. Now we’ll see whose cross may be carried before him in southern England.’

  He gathered an armoury of legal canonical weapons with which to attack Roger of York. ‘One by one I annihilate my enemies,’ he announced to the eruditi. All had assured him that his appearance at Woodstock before a full council had been masterful. The King had raged but was then struck dumb, his only recourse being to order the Archbishop to hand over his ‘guests’. Since returning to Canterbury, His Grace had treated the order with the disdain it deserved.

  The Council of Westminster opened under a bright autumn sky. The two Archbishops sat at opposite sides of a bench, each flanked by his supporters, with a throne at one end in readiness for the King. He was late. Becket sent a page to ask when the monarch might arrive. The answer came back, ‘His Highness is hawking.’ After a further wait, Winchester murmured to Foliot, ‘How does a hawk take its prey?’

  The newly appointed Bishop of London, who abjured the eating of flesh, even that of fish, stared at Winchester as if he had lost his wits. ‘I don’t hunt. I’m ignorant of its mysteries.’

  ‘Pity,’ the other murmured. ‘If you did, you’d be familiar with the behaviour of hawks.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘Unlike falcons, which fall from the sky faster than arrows, a hawk stays hidden and close to the ground. She attacks by stealth and seizes her prey from below. The creature panics and kills itself as it struggles against the talons that impale it.’

  Foliot shuddered.

  ‘This delay is intolerable,’ Becket announced several times. Prelates who loathed him nodded in agreement.

  The King arrived almost two hours late, jocose and sweaty, feathers sticking to his clothes. ‘My lords, excuse me, I beg of you. On my way I could not but notice some glorious partridges, and thought, “There are episcopal stomachs that will benefit from fresh meat.” So I arrive as your humble provedore.’ He smiled around the hall. ‘Now we have this issue about cross-bearers to discuss. Should our great York be allowed to have his cross carried before him when he enters the south of the country, where our mighty Archbishop of Canterbury holds sway? That’s the question, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ they answered.

  ‘Well, my lords, I have another one that must be settled first.’

  ‘The strike,’ Winchester murmured. ‘Becket knows as much about hawks as any man in England. If he were not so puffed with his own magnificence, he’d see what’s coming.’

  The King continued. ‘I’ve looked into the records of my grandfather, whose laws and customs I vowed to uphold in my coronation charter. I placed that charter on the altar of Westminster Abbey. Many of you present today witnessed my speech and saw the reverence with which I made my vow to God and to the people of England.’ Bishops began fidgeting their beads. ‘My lords, there are men here who have allowed my vow to be desecrated!’ He glared at all of them. ‘Under my grandfather, the Great Henry, criminous clerks were tried in royal courts. This no longer happens. The nation is in lawless confusion. What is church law? What is royal law? Whose law rules this land? Some weeks ago I warned our learned Archbishop of Canterbury about a scandal that was his to correct. He has defied me.’ He turned directly to Becket. ‘You have betrayed my trust, Bec.’

  Thomas leaped to his feet. ‘I defend the Church against evil customs, abuses and the violence of secular power, Lord King. We gathered to discuss the question of cross-bearing.’

  Henry whispered. The whole council had to strain to hear him. ‘And so we shall. But first the grievous situation of criminal clergy must be settled.’

  He leaned back and allowed his glance to rove around the assembly. Above him, concealed in a gallery, the Queen, the justiciars, Hamelin and Richard looked down. ‘I fear his hand is too heavy,’ Eleanor whispered to Beaumont. ‘He may unite them against him.’

  ‘His genius for strategy seems lacking.’

  Hamelin turned to Richard. ‘Give it to me,’ he ordered. He touched Eleanor’s hand. ‘Richard acquired this the day we attended Bec’s coronation.’

  She raised an eyebrow as she read. ‘If this is true, Bec can be charged with treason.’

  Richard whispered, ‘But Highness, how can a churchman be charged with treason? He has benefit of clergy.’

  ‘There is a proud tradition that nobody, except, naturally, the King, is exempt from treason,’ she hissed. Not even the Queen, she realised suddenly.

  Below them, the King abruptly stood up and stormed out. There was a moment’s shocked silence before the prelates themselves jumped to their feet and clustered together, whispering.

  Foliot turned to Winchester. ‘That was the strike?’ His tone was sarcastic.

  ‘I spoke too soon. The hawk assesses her prey.’

  ‘Which now happens to be us,’ the Bishop of London snapped. ‘We may all be deposed. Except our Archbishop, who was elected.’

  The strike came in the dead of night. Royal officials arrived with a letter from the King ordering that the Crown Prince was to be released from Becket’s household immediately. I and the Queen find our son’s education grossly neglected. You disgrace the dignity of foster father. A second letter, from Eleanor, was for young Henry. Dear One, she wrote, your mama misses you grievously. Please tell your servants to pack your belongings and before dawn leave with the knights I’ve sent to protect you. The boy did as she asked without demur. The rest of the King’s letter to Becket was a general command: all castles and fiefs he held as Chancellor – a post from which on your own volition you abruptly withdrew – were to be returned to the Crown.

  Abruptly woken from sleep, Becket read the order, stood up too quickly, and fainted. He regained consciousness after a few moments. ‘Where is my son?’ he cried.

  ‘Gone, Your Grace. Fled to his parents.’

  ‘Left without bidding me farewell!’ The Archbishop was too distressed to stand. ‘I loved that child! I did everything to ensure he’d rise to the throne according to English tradition.’

  A priest had elbowed into his chamber. ‘It’s said, my lord, your refusal to have him crowned Young King greatly angers his father. His Highness expe
cted you to do so within a fortnight of your own coronation. He claims you have betrayed him for base motives. From jealousy.’

  ‘Jealousy! What jealousy?’

  ‘Some … scribe. By repute the finest in the scriptorium. His Highness demanded his services at court, to the disadvantage of Canterbury.’

  ‘That stinking weasel. I didn’t give a fig for him.’ He slid his tongue along his broken front tooth, recalling the fight on board the ship, being hit with a stool, his perfect tooth broken, his lip gushing blood.

  The priest cleared his throat. ‘My lord, it’s widely rumoured that His Highness blames you for the death of his brother, Viscount William. And he … ah … spoke darkly about the amount of time you recently spent in the company of King Louis.’

  Becket’s fighting spirit revived. He stood up to glare at the priest. ‘He presumes to dictate with whom I may converse?’

  The priest studied the fine leather shoes Richard had given him a few hours earlier. He cleared his throat again. ‘As to your fiefs and castles, my lord, the King says they were a reward to England’s Chancellor.’

  Becket gave a ghastly laugh. ‘He wishes to humiliate me with every means at his disposal. Summon the bishops from yesterday’s council.’

  They arrived in the abbey for matins, the Bishop of London trailing in last. Before the Archbishop could speak, Foliot addressed the gathering. ‘My brothers, the King has left Westminster.’ Gasps greeted the announcement.

  ‘What will he do to us?’ men asked each other. ‘We’ve not settled the matter we came to discuss.’

  ‘His great-grandfather replaced every bishop in England with men he brought from Normandy,’ one recalled.

  Another said, ‘Archbishops Anselm and Theobald had to flee into exile.’

  Winchester raised his voice. ‘My friends, we face the loss of the privileges we gained under my brother, King Stephen.’

  ‘I tolerate the tyrant’s behaviour no longer,’ Becket announced. ‘I return to my see forthwith.’

  ‘Leaving us with a dog’s mess to clean up,’ Foliot muttered.

  Back in Canterbury, Becket raged. ‘The injustice! He speaks of the rule of law, his great English law, but he himself …’

  ‘Your Grace, if we must to flee to France, I’ve devised an escape route,’ Herbert said.

  Becket crossed himself. ‘And King Louis?’

  ‘Will welcome us.’

  Hamelin had stayed behind in the palace, where an acolyte who served the prelates’ refreshments reported to him.

  ‘Are they united against the King?’ rumbled the merlin.

  ‘Only some. They’re more angry with the Archbishop. They say among themselves that he has brought trouble on them by his erratic behaviour. They believe the Pope does not respect him. His Holiness was heard to describe him in his native tongue as “needing to be house-trained”. They lack confidence that the Holy Father would move swiftly to his defence if further trouble arose. Mostly they fear the King’s wrath, sir.’

  The merlin’s calm demeanour emboldened the acolyte to ask, ‘Where has His Highness gone?’

  Hamelin dropped a silver penny into the soft pink palm. ‘Out.’

  Henry was riding with a group of barons and his two eldest sons. ‘Darling boy, watch how your brother holds the reins,’ he told the Crown Prince.

  ‘He’s not my brother. He’s the son of a concubine.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  The child blushed.

  ‘Not your mother?’ Henry coaxed.

  The boy shook his head. ‘My foster father said so. I’m not to talk to him or play with him, because I might catch a disease. Neither may my real brothers, Ric and Geoffrey, she said.’ Suddenly he realised his error. His forehead fell onto his pony’s neck and he shook with sobs.

  ‘Darling, darling. Don’t cry. Don’t be afraid.’

  The Prince stole a glance at his father, who leaned down from his horse to chuck him under the chin.

  ‘You’re my brave boy. You’re my beautiful boy. I want to teach you to ride like a king, because one day you will be King. ‘

  The sobbing abated. Warily, Prince Henry observed his parent’s instructions.

  That evening, Hamelin found his brother re-reading the letter Richard had acquired at Becket’s coronation. ‘D’you think it’s genuine?’ the monarch asked.

  ‘The Lout is capable of any crime, but he’d never purposely mislead you with a fake.’

  ‘Noooo,’ the King said thoughtfully. ‘Amusing how he got it, eh?’

  ‘You swine! He acted on your orders.’

  ‘I’m obliged to give so many orders, sometimes I lose track … Magnates and men of high esteem hurry to congratulate me on the confiscation of Bec’s estates. I have the full support of the baronage.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Hamelin rumbled. ‘They’re all hoping for a castle, a manor or land you’ve confiscated from your former Chancellor.’

  ‘Such cynicism, brother!’

  When Henry swaggered off to entertain the barons, Hamelin stayed where he was, a crease between his brows. Every night his guides brought him images of urgency, but urgency for what he could not fathom. He woke each morning feeling jumbled and uncertain of what he had been shown. One night his spirit wife, Alaw, turned her slender body away from his embrace. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Am I soon to die?’

  She would not answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The King and Hamelin were so attuned to each other’s moods it often seemed they understood them more keenly than their own. After William’s funeral, Henry felt the burgeoning of his brother’s melancholy.

  When the Queen returned from Anjou, her husband asked, ‘And Hamelin?’

  ‘He was as distraught as I, but maintained stoic dignity throughout the service. Sailing home, he walked the deck with Isabel, calming her fear of the roaring waves.’

  ‘He touched her?’

  ‘He tried not to, but once she nearly fell and he snatched her back onto her feet.’

  ‘He schooled Willi in how to seduce her. Now he feels guilty. He feels the love-craft he taught our darling William has broken two hearts.’

  Eleanor nodded. Her husband looked at her strangely, she thought. She approached and stroked his face. ‘Cousin?’

  ‘I worry about Hamelin. He’s lost all joie de vivre. I suspect he no longer luxuriates in the company of his Welsh princess at night. He muttered something about “Alaw moves to a higher plane.”’

  Eleanor became thoughtful. ‘There is meagre pleasure in a merlin’s life.’

  Henry grunted. ‘He still enjoys the hunt.’

  The truce with Louis was holding, so the King decided to spend the last days of autumn hunting, mostly in Surrey, where a royal park and hunting lodge would accommodate the large party he invited. In that county game was plentiful, available to be smoked, dried or pickled for the long months of winter.

  In the first few days Hamelin shot more than five other men combined, his one great earthly pleasure, besides music, exercised with almost maniacal fervour.

  Meanwhile, locked in Canterbury, Becket fretted about his last meeting with Henry. Finally Herbert of Bosham persuaded him to swallow some pride and, as his suffragan bishops were demanding, ride out to meet the sovereign. ‘After days of hunting he’ll be a different man. You always said he was most affable after the exertions of the chase.’

  ‘Forbidden to me now,’ Becket grumbled.

  But with a little more chivvying from the Adorables and John of Salisbury, he agreed to go.

  One hot evening, the Archbishop found the King relaxing with friends in the royal lodge. A golden sunset streamed through open windows. The monarch did not rise to greet him, but nodded for him to sit, then glanced at his companions, who picked up their wine cups and filed outside.

  Henry’s expression of amiable well-being did not harden. The soft time of day, the relaxation after physical exertion, the pleasure of being young, strong and pulsing with life all s
eemed to combine to open a space inside him, a chamber he’d forgotten could exist. He slid into another world, where he felt no hatred for Becket. Bitterness fell away and he remembered only their affection. The years of love have left their trace on both our souls, he thought. He grinned wistfully as he fingered his cup before reaching out to pour wine for the visitor.

  ‘You’ve come to join the hunt, Bec?’ he grinned. His chest was half bare, its curly mat golden in the slanting rays of sun. His hair, uncovered, stuck to his head with sweat. He ran a hand through it.

  Becket swallowed before he raised the cup to his lips. Just looking at him, he told himself. Oh, those whorls of copper on his chest … Love was my ruin. No more! No more!

  ‘H-H-Henry, I’ve come to withdraw my hasty remarks made at Westminster.’

  ‘Tom, you’ve come to try to persuade me to return some of your confiscated property. I won’t. As to your remarks, they were made publicly. You must publicly withdraw them.’

  ‘I didn’t anticipate such a harsh response, Henry.’

  ‘Nor did I anticipate a number of your harsh words, Bec.’ The King stared into his cup. Even now, a reef of affection lies below our fury. We fear it more than our mutual detestation. We fear how much we once loved each other. Abruptly he felt the magical chamber close. ‘For a man of such brilliance, you show an extraordinary dullness of intellect in affairs of state. I imagined that, having worked so closely beside me for so many years, you would have …’ He shook his head like a bull working itself towards charging.

  ‘You regret sponsoring me!’ Becket gave a strangled bray of laughter. ‘“My greatest blunder” is how you describe it.’ He leaned forward, smiling. ‘But the die is cast. Alea iacta est.’

  After minutes spent in silence the King said, ‘Would you like to drink a glass of mead to celebrate my blunder?’