by Jean Plaidy
I saw from the glint in Henry’s eyes that he was feeling a similar emotion. Of course, it was not new to him. He had lived in this country for several years. But now it was his and I believed he was going to love it with an intensity which neither Normandy nor Anjou could arouse in him.
First we went to Westminster Palace, which was in such a state of disrepair that we could not stay there. Alternative accommodation was found for us at Bermondsey Palace which, though somewhat primitive compared with those to which I was accustomed, was at least an improvement.
Henry said that the coronation should take place without delay. Until he was crowned King he could not be contented.
I doubt whether there had ever been such a speedy coronation.
“These people will expect a grand display,” he said, “and even though there is little time for the preparation we must give it to them.”
Fortunately I never traveled if I could help it without as splendid a wardrobe as I could muster. I was seven months pregnant, but that must be no deterrent. I intended to be crowned beside Henry, for if he was King of this country, I was its Queen.
I was determined to impress the people of England. I wanted to give them the sight of fashions they would never have seen before.
My kirtle was of blue velvet with a collar of the finest gems; over it I wore a pelisse, edged with sable and lined with ermine, with very wide sleeves. It was not unlike the pictures I had seen of the costume worn by the wife of the Conqueror. I thought it would be a good idea to look a little like her, to remind them of the stock from which their King had come. I wore my hair flowing with a jeweled band about my brow.
Even Henry had taken some trouble with his appearance on this occasion. His dalmatica was of brocade and embroidered with gold, but he clung to the short cape which had earned him the nickname of “Curtmantel.” In spite of his rather stocky figure and his contempt for fashion, he looked quite impressive with his leonine head and close-cropped tawny curls. A King they could be proud of.
The people had crowded into the streets to see us as we went back to the Palace of Bermondsey. They cheered but they were not overenthusiastic. It was as though they were waiting to see what would come from this new reign.
They had suffered civil war, and that must always have a sobering effect. But now the succession was settled. This was the grandson of that great Henry, and they knew, now that he was dead and they had experienced life under a weak monarch, that he had been a great King.
The new reign had begun and Henry was eager to put right those wrongs which had been perpetrated during the reign of his predecessor and to introduce his own rule.
Our coronation had taken place on December 19, and although he was impatient to be off on a journey which would take him to the important places throughout the country, he did realize that the people would expect Christmas to be celebrated in a royal manner—he must not make the mistake his mother had. As soon as the Christmas celebrations were over (and he warned me they must be lavish, as I would know how to make them), he would set out to discover what was wrong with the country and what he was going to do to remedy it.
With Petronilla’s help I devised some entertainment for Christmas. I would send for some of my minstrels but of course there was no time for that now. I thought of the pleasure it would give me to see Bernard de Ventadour again. I would create a Court under these gloomy skies which would equal that of my beloved Aquitaine.
But now the time was short. We planned feverishly. We must not disappoint Henry. Nor did we. It might well be that he would not have wanted anything bearing a resemblance to the Courts of Love, but later I should make my own Court to suit myself.
One memory which stands out very clearly from those Christmas revels is that of Thomas Becket, because I first saw him there.
I did not see any great significance in the meeting then; it was only afterward that it became of such importance. But I could not fail to notice him. There was something distinguished about him, and that was obvious in the first moments of meeting him. He had great presence. He was very tall and good-looking, with a somewhat hooked nose which gave him a patrician look, and one of the most compelling pairs of dark eyes I have ever seen. He must have been about fifteen or sixteen years older than Henry.
I had rarely seen Henry take to anyone as quickly as he did to Thomas Becket. He had charmed Archbishop Theobald equally, it seemed, for he had spent several years in the Archbishop’s household and had been favored by him, which of course had aided him in his career.
Henry brought him to me and, almost before the usual pleasantries had been exchanged, he would have him tell me of the romantic love affair of his parents.
“It will please the Queen,” he told Becket. “Doubtless she will make a song of it, or get one of her minstrels to. She has a great liking for poets, and she is one herself.”
Becket and I took each other’s measure steadily, and I knew in that moment that there was some special quality about this man; I was not sure whether I should be wary of it.
“I am honored,” said Becket, “that my gracious Queen should wish to hear the story of my humble beginnings.”
Henry gave the man an affectionate push. I wondered why it was that they had become on such familiar terms so soon; he could not have known the man long. We had arrived in England only a few weeks before. Henry, of course, was open in his dealings with people. If he liked them, he did not disguise the fact; nor did he if it were otherwise. He had no time for subtlety.
Becket was learned and well read. So was Henry. I had gathered that. They made allusions to classics with which they were familiar and which the others might not understand. The difference in their ages was great, but Henry was mature beyond his years; he was not the sort of man who would suffer those about him who bored him.
He urged Becket to tell me the story. It was certainly strange. It went something like this:
His father, Gilbert, had been a native of Rouen, but after the Norman invasion of England, like so many, he decided to seek his fortune there. When he was a boy, in his little village of Thierceville, in Normandy, Gilbert had played with Theobald, who was determined to go into the Church. Theobald was a very ambitious man; he followed the Conqueror to England and in due course became Archbishop of Canterbury. Like many men of his generation, Gilbert decided to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and, taking with him one servant, he set out. He reached Jerusalem without any great mishap but on his way home the party with which he was traveling was captured by the Saracens.
Becket continued: “To my father’s horror, he heard that he was to be taken to the Emir Amurath, who was a sadistic man whose favorite pastime was torturing Christians. My father in due course was brought before him. Now, I must tell you this: my father was a man of unusually dignified bearing and outstanding good looks. The Emir admired beauty in men as well as women, and he could not bring himself to impair such beauty, so he sent my father to a dungeon. My father must have been blessed by God for his jailers were also struck by his appearance and showed him some kindness. He responded and they became so friendly that he learned their language.”
“He certainly was fortunate,” I said.
Henry said jocularly: “Naturally so, good Becket. Providence was determined to put no hindrance in the way of your entry into the world.”
“I thank you, sire,” said Becket, bowing with mock irony.
Yes, I thought, they are certainly on unusually good terms.
“In time,” went on Becket, “the Emir remembered my father and sent for him. He was amazed to see that the only effect prison had had on him was to make him understand their language. My father told him that he had learned it from his jailers. The Emir asked him questions about London. My father knew how to talk entertainingly and he amused the Emir with stories of that part of the world which the powerful ruler had never seen, but of which he had heard much. He was given fine garments, for the Emir made a companion of him; and soon my father had apartme
nts in the palace, and the friendship between them grew so much that in time he was invited to dine at the Emir’s table.”
“Now,” said Henry, “the romantic story begins. This is what you will want to sing about.”
“The Emir’s daughter dined with her father, and she was impressed by Gilbert’s fair looks as well as his talk.”
“You know what is coming,” said Henry to me.
“There was love between them?” I asked.
Thomas Becket nodded. “Of course he was a Christian and she was of another faith. For all his friendship with my father, the Emir would never have agreed to a marriage between them. She was very determined. She insisted on my father’s teaching her to become a Christian. He gave her a name . . . a Christian name. He called her Mahault—which is another name for Matilda—because that was the name of the wife of the great Norman, Duke William, who had conquered England. My father was fully aware of the dangerous game he was playing. If the Emir discovered how far this matter with his daughter had gone, he would be put to death . . . very likely crucified, a favorite punishment for Christians. They were always singing the praises of One who died in such a manner, so it seemed logical that they should die in the same way. My father was prepared for that, for he was a deeply dedicated Christian.”
I cannot remember his exact words, but he went on to tell us how the Christian prisoners planned to escape and Gilbert, of course, was to escape with them. His position had made it possible for him to help them, and this as a Christian he was committed to do. But there was Mahault. He could not take her, of course; but his duty lay with his fellow Christians. The escape was well planned and succeeded.
“And the poor girl was left behind?” I cried.
“She was heartbroken. They thought she would die. Then suddenly she began to recover, because she had decided what she would do. She was going to England to find Gilbert. She planned with care, sewing priceless jewels into her garments, and when she was ready she stole out of the Emir’s palace and set out. There were many pilgrims on the road and she joined a party of them. She found some who could speak her language and told them what she planned to do. She knew two words in English: London and Gilbert. It seemed that God was watching over her, for in time she arrived in England.”
“Now comes the end of the story,” said Henry. “I like it.”
“Yes,” said Becket. “She went through the streets of London calling Gilbert. That was all. She became a familiar sight. People talked of her—the strange woman with the Eastern look who knew only two words—Gilbert and London. She called for him, sometimes piteously, sometimes hopefully. It was my father’s servant who saw her, for he had been in captivity with my father. He took her to him. The quest was over.”
“There,” said Henry, “is that not a tale of true romance?”
“It is indeed. I never heard the like.”
“It was God—making sure that we had a Thomas Becket.” Henry slapped the man on the back.
I certainly was intrigued by the story but most of all perhaps by the quick friendship Henry appeared to have formed with this man.
Later I spoke of him.
“It is not surprising that this Becket is an unusual man,” I said, “with such a father and an Eastern mother.”
“A woman of great purpose.”
“And a noble gentleman.”
“Yes, that is what produced Becket.”
“I wonder what his childhood was like in such circumstances.”
“He has told me parts. He was brought up in a very religious way. His mother was a convert to Christianity and, remember, they are often the most intense. Both his parents wanted him to go into the Church. A nobleman who had visited the house was interested in their story of the strange marriage and naturally his attention turned to Thomas. He took him to his home in Pevensey Castle and brought him up as a nobleman’s son.”
“Ah yes, there is certainly a touch of the nobleman about him. His tastes would appear to be expensive.”
“I tell him he is too fastidious for a commoner,” said Henry.
“He could scarcely accuse you of being too fastidious.”
“Becket did not want to go into the Church. He fancied business. He did well—which was to be expected. Then disaster struck. His mother died and his father’s house was burned to the ground—and soon after that Gilbert died. Becket was melancholy. His parents had meant a great deal to him. Theobald, who had become Archbishop of Canterbury and remembered playing with Gilbert as a boy, persuaded Thomas to join his household. Thomas was twenty-five then. Of course, there he was noticed immediately.”
“Yes, he is a man who would be. He is so tall . . . and those dark eyes of his, which he must have inherited from his mother, are very handsome. His very thinness makes him look taller and he seems to stand about four inches above other men.”
“He did not stay in the Archbishop’s house. There were those who were jealous of him and made his life difficult, and although Theobald was aware of Thomas’s brilliance, he let him go for the sake of the peace of the household. He sent him to his brother Walter, who was the Archdeacon of Canterbury. After Walter’s death, Becket took that post.”
“He hardly seems like a man of the Church.”
“No, he is far too amusing. I think he considered for a time which way he should go.”
“He seems to have taken your fancy.”
“I verily believe he is the most interesting man I have met since coming to these shores.”
I suppose I should not have been surprised when shortly afterward Henry told me that he had made Becket his Chancellor.
I was now heavily pregnant. Henry had left London and was traveling through the country. I missed Matilda and wished she were with me. But I had Petronilla, now a sober matron, mother and widow, quite a different person from the frivolous girl whose hasty love affair had created such consternation.
Eagerly I awaited the birth. From the palace I could look across the river to the Tower of London, that great sentinel which guarded the eastern side, and from there to the west, dominated by the spire of the cathedral, and beyond to Ludgate. I could see the strand along the river, with the wharves and the houses of the nobility with their fine gardens and their boats staked to the privy stairs which ran down to the river. I knew the strand led to Westminster Palace where we should have taken up residence, of course, if it had been fit for habitation. This would have to be remedied. There would be so much for me to do. But first I must give birth to my child.
It was not a difficult birth, and there was great rejoicing throughout the palace when it was over and I had another boy.
I said: “This one shall be called Henry after his father.”
After the birth of the child, I took my place beside Henry in his journeyings around the country. I was enthralled by my new realm and wanted to learn as much about it as possible. The people were very different from the natives of Aquitaine, but I liked them nonetheless. They marveled at me and I felt that they were by no means hostile. They had taken to Henry; his ways suited them. They liked his careless way of dressing, his rough and ready style. I suppose he made them feel he was one of them. On the other hand they did appreciate my elegance and they were obviously delighted and rather overawed by my appearance. They were very interested in my clothes and seemed to like their Queen to look attractive.
So that was a happy time.
One could not expect it to continue. We were both back in Bermondsey for a brief respite when we were disturbed by a visitor, Henry’s brother Geoffrey.
We made much of him, but I could see he was envious and bent on making trouble. That irritated me. Did he think he would have had the wit and courage to win this crown? People like Geoffrey wanted everything to fall into their hands with no effort from themselves.
I guessed that he had come to see what he could get, and he soon made it clear that I was right about that.
“Now you have England,” he said, “Anjou should be mine.”
“I think not,” retorted Henry.
“It was what our father intended.”
“You could not hold on to Anjou.”
“Why should I not?”
“Because you lack the experience to do so,” Henry told him. “I cannot throw away my father’s inheritance. He left you three castles.”
“And you took them from me.”
“I might restore them.”
Geoffrey was furious. He left us in a huff.
Henry snapped his fingers. “Young fool,” he said. “How long does he think he would hold Anjou?”
“He has a very high opinion of himself,” I replied. “What a lucky escape I had. The young fool had the temerity to make a bid for me. Of course, it was doomed to failure—as all Geoffrey’s projects would be.”
Henry dismissed his brother from his mind but I did not think the matter would end there.
Then Matilda announced her intention of coming to England. Henry was delighted and great preparations were made to receive her.
“She will want to see you in your crown,” I said. “She has dreamed of that for so long.”
“And worked for it,” said Henry soberly.
She was indefatigable in his service. No sooner had she come than I realized she had a purpose in doing so.
“I think it is necessary for you to come over,” she told Henry. “Geoffrey is intent on trouble.”
“He has been here, you know,” said Henry.
“I do know it. He came back with grievances. You are brothers, he says. Why should you have everything?”
“It was as my father left it,” said Henry. “But I have been thinking I should do something for Geoffrey.”
“Not Normandy,” said Matilda.