The Lions' Torment
Page 35
‘We’ll put your lambskins over it, Lord Archbishop. They may dampen the flame.’
‘That’s worse! Their weight makes it worse.’ Suddenly Thomas smiled. ‘The fire clears my mind. This hideous garment sharpens one’s thoughts. It prepares me for whatever the Beast sends.’
The bell for vespers tolled. By the time the Archbishop was fully gowned, monks and other clergy were moving in a slow, hushed shuffle towards the church. Outside, the four knights still stamped back and forth, muttering oaths. As groups of monks filed past them, they shouted, ‘Where’s your Archbishop! We come in the name of the King.’
Black cowls bent and hurried past. ‘What a pong,’ FitzUrse said.
‘It’s incense in their gowns.’
‘And filthy bodies underneath.’
Morville’s tone was murderous. ‘Richard has let us down. He’s warned Bec. Now our man has escaped.’
Brito glowered. ‘Let’s fetch our armour.’
They retrieved it from under the tree, strapping on greaves, sword belts and swords and fitting their helmets over their heads. None wore heraldic symbols, so all appeared identical. There was still enough light for the churchmen to see the tall, menacing forms that moved forward on iron feet. ‘Armed men!’ they cried. ‘Armed men on sacred ground.’ The more agile turned to run to the Archbishop’s quarters. ‘Flee, lord,’ they cried. Others ran back to their dormitory. Some made for the chapter house.
Becket descended to the cloister, where his cross-bearer, Llewellyn, waited for him. ‘Give me that,’ he said. He heaved the cross from the young Welshman’s hands. I have the strength of God, he thought. As he grasped the precious object, the dream of his first night back on English soil returned. The cross grew warm in his hands. He braced himself against the weight with ease and marched toward the darkened church, smiling to himself. You send knights to arrest me, Henry. Heaven sends me an angel and Heaven’s power.
The iron tramp of feet entered through the cathedral’s main doors. ‘Halt, in the name of the King!’ a voice shouted.
Becket ignored it. The gold grew hotter. Fire from the hair shirt consumed his skin but the flame in the cross he held was exquisite. In the dim light he wondered that others did not see heaven was in his hands. Some monks tried to pull him back. He shrugged them off. Others fled, shrieking. The knights shouted, ‘We come from the King to arrest you, Thomas Becket. You stand accused of treason. You have perjured yourself!’ He scoffed and continued to walk slowly towards the altar.
Suddenly Morville jumped in front of him. ‘Stop!’ he shouted.
Becket heard a sound he had once loved – swords singing as they flew from their scabbards. He almost laughed.
‘Put those puny devices away. They’re useless against the power of this sword.’ The hair shirt encumbered his knees, slowing his movements, making him more majestic. He turned to face the four knights, holding the cross with both hands. Its colour changed from gold to red. The strength of my fury is that of ten men. Thus does the Lord empower me. ‘Insects! Leave this sacred place and return to the swine who calls himself King.’
‘Lay down the cross!’ Morville shouted.
‘Lay down your playthings, vile bodies.’ Outside, monks screamed in terror.
Morville lifted his sword and took a swipe at the crucifix, cutting Becket’s arm. ‘Who’s got the irons?’ he demanded.
‘I have,’ came through a helmet.
‘Becket, lay down your cross. On royal orders, we come to arrest you.’
The Archbishop laughed. It was too much for Brito, who sliced at the bare head; not a real blow, but a warning. His blade cut a strip of skin from Becket’s scalp. Blood ran down one cheek.
‘Cowards! I hold fire from heaven in these sacred hands. Heaven will strike you down.’ Becket advanced on them, holding the glowing cross horizontally, as a warrior holds his sword when he makes the decision to decapitate. ‘It shall strike you down, one by one.’
They stepped back, uncertain. In the dim light the Archbishop seemed huge but clumsy, his shadow a giant moving across the wall towards them. ‘We can jump him,’ FirzUrse said. ‘I’ve got the irons.’
In the glow from the candles on the altar behind Becket a voice suddenly screamed the war cry of Normandy. The Archbishop turned. A young man stood on the altar’s top step, pale eyes blazing. Eyes he knew from a thousand embraces.
‘Richard!’ Thomas bellowed.
‘This is for my lord William!’ Richard yelled back.
A sword once forged in a workshop in Jerusalem rose in a graceful sweep. Momentarily a shadow moved across the candle flames on the altar. The top of a tonsured skull flew off, and Becket collapsed on the steps, his head towards the flagstones.
The Lout ran down and used his blade to scoop out the Archbishop’s brains and stir them, mixing white with purple. ‘Come, men,’ he said. ‘Let’s away.’
In Argentan, Henry felt a sudden pain in his head. A voice inside him said, ‘Go to your bedchamber and lie down.’
He did. As he closed his eyes, Hamelin appeared. ‘The Lout carried out your orders.’
He gave a deep sigh. ‘The struggle is over,’ he murmured. As he spoke, a dazzling light appeared. Becket stood inside it. He looked as he had when Henry first saw him, tall, handsome, smiling, with dark eyes in the shape of the fish called Dover sole. The golden nimbus surrounding him swelled and contracted, rippling and flowing, as magical as a rainbow. ‘Tom, you and I were a great team,’ the King said aloud.
‘Why did you treat me like an animal?’
Henry did not know what he meant. He felt the cool blue presence of the Guardian. ‘You forced me to arrest you, Tom. You threatened the realm.’
‘But you loved me once. I loved you always,’ Becket persisted.
A sense of ecstasy pervaded Henry as the two lights merged, swelled and contracted, one great heart beating inside two bodies. They sat knee to knee at the chequered cloth, united in the noble work of building a country from the rubble of civil war. They laughed, they frowned, sometimes they kissed.
‘It was my duty as sovereign to thwart you,’ Henry said.
‘But not like that. Love is greater than violence.’
The nimbus vanished. Henry buried his face in a pillow. ‘Love is greater,’ he whispered. ‘But not for a king.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am much indebted to James Spigleman (the Honourable J. J. Spigleman, former Chief Justice of New South Wales) for his contribution to this book. As an intellectual exercise he translated from Latin into English documents stored in London relating to Henry II and Thomas Becket. He gave me the fruit of that part of this labour that described the famous murder in Canterbury Cathedral on 30 December 1170. Its interpretation is, however, my own.
I am also grateful to Andrew Mortimer, Chairman of Superstructure International, for discussing his insights into King Henry, based on The History of the English Law Before the Time of Edward I by Sir Frederick Pollock and William Frederic Maitland. He went to the trouble of photostatting for me a relevant section of Pollock’s legal classic.
I also thank my dear friend, John Lonie, who not only read and re-read the manuscript for me, offering valuable comments, but whose unfailing affection encouraged me through what has been a very long stint of work.
I’m grateful to my literary agent, Jeanne Ryckmans of Cameron’s Management for her diligence and kindness. Jane Curry of Ventura has my gratitude for taking over when the great international house, Bonnier, with which I had a contract for eight novels, collapsed in Australia. And I thank once more Jane Selley of London who edited the manuscript, bringing to her work the eye of an Englishwoman and a graduate in history from Cambridge.
As ever, I am thankful to my family and friends for their love and support.
Also by Blanche d’Alpuget – the first in the Birth of the Plantagenets series
The Young Lion
Queen Eleanor of France, said to be the most beautiful woman in Europe, ha
s not been able to give birth to an heir. A strategic liaison with Geoffrey the Handsome, the virile and charming Duke of Normandy, could remedy that – or lead to her downfall and Geoffrey’s death.
What begins with cool calculation becomes a passionate affair. Despite his love for Eleanor, however, Geoffrey has larger plans: to help his warrior son, Henry, seize the English throne.
When Henry saves his father from discovery and execution by the French, he falls foul of Eleanor – and madly in love with her Byzantine maid. Should he become King of England, however, this dazzling woman will never be acceptable as his queen.
These intertwined relationships – heated, forbidden and perilous – are the heart of a vivid story of ambition, vengeance and political intrigue set in the glorious flowering of troubadour culture, mysticism and learning that is twelfth-century France.
‘Blanche d’Alpuget … has a remarkable ear for the passions and cravings of her characters. Her narrative is so fresh and energetic you will swear she’s bringing us a first-hand account’ – Stephanie Dowrick
‘This is exuberant story-telling history, full of sex, passion and politics’
– Geraldine Doogue
Paperback 9781925384758
ebook 9781925384765
Also by Blanche d’Alpuget – the second in the Birth of the Plantagenets series
The Lion Rampant
1154. After years of manipulation and political cunning, young Henry II accedes to the throne of England, with the beautiful and indomitable Eleanor of Aquitaine by his side.
But the kingdom he inherits is an impoverished shambles after the long, troubled reign of Stephen the Usurper. Together, the tempestuous royal couple use their charisma and shrewd diplomacy to restore England’s prestige and power, and ensure the future of their mighty dynasty.
In order to replenish the English treasury, Henry appoints Thomas Becket, the unordained Archdeacon of Canterbury, as Chancellor. Becket is no ordinary man: born without rank, he is charming, quick-witted, a masterful intriguer and a lavish dresser with a genius for raising money. Beneath this lies a man seething with ambition, jealousy, treachery and desire.
In a dance of scheming, vengeance and forbidden passions, during one of the most turbulent and compelling periods of English history, Henry, Eleanor and Becket fight for political power and control against forces seen and imagined – each with their own agenda, each determined to hide their own shameful secrets.
‘The character of Thomas Becket will rivet readers as they have not been riveted since Hilary Mantel’s Thomas Cromwell’
– Thomas Keneally, AO