by Jean Plaidy
To make matters worse, a tragedy struck the family, and this again Henry laid at Thomas’s door.
There was news from Matilda. Her letter betrayed her violent grief. Her young son William was dead.
Henry could not believe it. When last he had heard of William, his brother had been perfectly well—sad, of course, because he had been in love with the Countess and on account of consanguinity he had been denied—by that meddling priest Thomas of Canterbury—permission to marry her.
Matilda wrote: “Dear William, he was always so gentle, so different from you and Geoffrey. He only wanted to live in peace and amity with the whole world. He never sought anything for himself. He only wanted love and he could have had it—but your Archbishop prevented the marriage. He never recovered from that disappointment. He was listless. When he came to me I was shocked by the sight of him. I nursed him myself but it was no good. He did not care to live. He caught a cold. There are so many drafts in the castle. I think he could have recovered, but he just did not want to live without the Countess. You should never have appointed that man as Archbishop. Now he has killed William.”
The letter dropped from Henry’s hand. I picked it up and read it.
Henry’s face was crumpled in sorrow. He had really loved William. Then suddenly his grief turned to rage.
“It is Thomas Becket . . . always Thomas. He plagues me. He brings trouble into my life.”
“It would seem so,” I agreed.
Henry sank onto a stool and covered his face with his hands. Then he lifted his eyes to my face, and I saw the burning hatred there.
“This,” he said, “I will never forgive.”
Tension was increasing all through that summer. I knew that sooner or later it would have to come to a head. Henry’s mind was completely obsessed by Becket. I knew he would not rest while Thomas was in the country. He wanted to dismiss him, but he could not dismiss the Archbishop of Canterbury. All he could do was hope to humiliate him into resigning.
I did not think Thomas would do that. He would consider he had failed the Church if he did. He would want to stand firm and fight the good fight for the sake of the Church.
He did, however, make two attempts to escape during that summer, I heard afterward. On one occasion he disguised himself as a monk and with only a few of his loyal servants rode to Romney, where a boat was to have been waiting to take him across the water to enjoy that hospitality which Louis had promised him. However, the elements were against him, and the boatmen would not risk their lives trying to cross on such seas. I wondered what he thought of God’s being so careless as not to arrange better weather for His chosen one. He would always have an answer, such as “God has other plans for me.”
He could not stay in Romney and had to return to his palace. When he arrived late at night, his servants thought he was a ghost and some terrible fate had befallen him. They were terrified but at last he was able to persuade them that he was no ghost and they let him in; he was their own Archbishop and was still with them because it was God’s will that this should be so.
Then came an opportunity to summon him to the court.
One of Henry’s officers, John the Marshal, brought an action against the Archbishop’s court. There had been a dispute over a piece of land in Pagham in Sussex, which John claimed as his; but it happened to be on Church land and the Church disputed John’s claim to it. Then a court, set up by the Church, heard the case and set aside John’s claim. Under the new law John could contest the case and have it tried in the King’s court.
Henry was delighted, for here was a chance to come once more into conflict with the Archbishop.
The court was to be held at Westminster, and Henry, with great glee, summoned Becket to appear.
On the day set for the hearing, Becket did not arrive in court. He sent a message to say he was unwell.
Henry did not intend to spare him, though Becket had sent four knights and a sheriff with the letter in which he stated he was too unwell to attend court, and the case ought not to be brought, as John the Marshal had taken his oath on a hymn book instead of the Bible.
Henry then declared that he did not believe in Becket’s illness. He said Becket need not think he was going to escape. The suit should be held on October 6, which was a few weeks later, and it should take place at Northampton, where we should be at that time.
Henry had worked himself up into a passion, certain that Becket had been well enough to attend on the previous occasion, and when he was in court and Becket put forward his case, Henry refused to listen and accused him of contempt of court. He demanded that sentence be passed against him.
Henry was so fierce in his accusations that those who were to judge took fright and, realizing that he wanted Becket found guilty, condemned him to be “at the King’s mercy.” This generally meant that he would be required to give up all his goods to the King, but in most cases it was a figure of speech and merely meant the imposition of a fine.
But Henry wanted more than that. He wanted the sentence carried out to the letter. He sent his demands, which were enormous, referring back to the time when Becket had been Chancellor and money had passed into his hands. Everything must be accounted for. It was clear that the King’s intention was to ruin Becket.
Sick and emaciated from insufficient nourishment, Becket was ill again and could not appear in court to face more charges. When he did not arrive, Henry humiliated him by sending several men to his chambers to be assured that the Archbishop was not malingering.
I think at that time Becket wanted to be a martyr. His feelings for the King must have been as strong as Henry’s for him, and in my opinion he wanted to goad Henry into doing something which would cause him lifelong regret. He came into the court, barefoot and carrying his own cross, implying that it was his only protection against a tyrant. I heard that his advisers clustered around him—one urging him to use his power to frighten the King with a threat of excommunication, another to remember the saints and meekly accept what was coming to him.
Henry was not present on this occasion. His feelings fluctuated; he swayed between love and pity for his old friend and hatred and the desire for revenge. He could not face him, so he sent the Earl of Leicester to sentence him. What the sentence would have been it was never discovered because it was never given. Becket told the Earl so sternly and with such conviction that he was committing a sin by attempting to sentence his spiritual father that Leicester refrained from doing so. And Becket left the hall, carrying his own cross.
The next day news was brought to Henry that the Archbishop had disappeared.
Henry fell into a rage. He shouted that the traitor had escaped him. He would go to France, where they would make a saint of him. It would be easy for him to work against the King there and he must be stopped.
He commanded that all ports be watched.
It was some time afterward that we heard what actually happened. Being aware that the King’s men would be waiting for him at the port of Dover, Thomas, disguised as a monk, had turned northwards and gone to Grantham and from there to Lincoln. There were many who regarded him as a saint and were ready to shelter him. So he was traveling in England for some days, and from Lincoln he sailed down to Boston, and then turned back to Kent. With him was Roger de Brai, who would serve him with his life, and two lay brothers, Robert de Cave and Scailman. It was a hazardous journey and they knew that one false step could lead them to disaster. Becket would be called a traitor now, and the fate of traitors was death.
They took their lives in their hands every time they rested for a night but in due course they came to the little village of Eastry, close to Sandwich, and they stayed there for a while in the house of a priest until a boat could be found and the weather was clement enough to give them a safe crossing.
In due course they set sail and were fortunate enough to pass safely over the sea and to land on the sands of Oie, not far from Gravelines.
I wondered what Thomas Becket’s thoughts were
when he went ashore from his little boat. Did he think of that other time when he had come to this spot with splendor and pomp, come on a mission from the King to ask for the hand of Louis’s daughter for Prince Henry? Then he had been the King’s beloved friend; now he was his bitter enemy.
The Fair Rosamund
HENRY’S REACTION WAS WHAT I should have expected. When he finally realized that Becket had escaped him and landed in Flanders and was doubtless on his way to take advantage of Louis’s offer of protection, he was overcome with rage.
This time he did not attempt to suppress it. He raved and ranted, tore at his hair, screamed abuse, lay on the floor, kicked the furniture and, seizing handfuls of rushes, gnawed them.
I stood watching him dispassionately. Everyone else made haste to get out of the way when these moods took him.
He was aware of my analytical gaze. It angered him. He would have liked me to be terrified. I just thought he was behaving like a spoiled child.
At length he grew calmer. He stood up and, after kicking viciously at the legs of the table sat down heavily and stared into space.
“He’ll go to Louis,” I said. He nodded.
“And Louis,” I went on, “will make much of him.”
“Oh yes, indeed he will. He’ll do anything to make trouble for me. He will be laughing at this. These two good men of the Church will put their pious heads together. I can see that. I must write to Louis without delay. I must tell him my side of the story. I shall demand that Becket be sent back to me. What right has Louis to keep a subject of mine?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “If he is there and Louis allows him to stay, he will,” I said.
“Oh yes, yes, he’ll be there . . . with his tales of the wickedness of the King of England.”
“I daresay he will tell what actually happened.”
Henry sent for writing materials. I saw what he wrote.
“Thomas, who was my Archbishop of Canterbury, has been judged in a court of a company of lords, a traitor against me. I beg you not to allow this guilty man to remain in your kingdom. Let not this enemy of mine have help from you, as I would never give to any of your enemies . . .”
Becket had gone but could not be dismissed. Henry would sit glaring before him and I knew he was wondering: Where is Becket now? What is he doing?
We left Northampton and traveled by degrees to Marlborough where we were to spend Christmas. I guessed that it would not be a very merry one, haunted, as I was sure it would be, by the ghost of Becket. We were already at Marlborough when messengers returned from France. They brought no reply from Louis but did report on the manner in which he had received Henry’s information.
Louis had read the letter with some amazement and all he had said was: “The King of England states that Thomas Becket was his Archbishop. Has he been deposed then?” The messenger had not known how to reply to that, for in truth Becket had not been deposed. “It must be by the King of England,” Louis replied. “I can think of no other. I am also a king but I do not have the power to depose the humblest cleric in my country.”
The messengers reported that Louis had then said to the papal representative, who happened to be present: “Pray tell my lord Pope Alexander that I hope he will receive the Archbishop of Canterbury in friendship. I fear that unjust accusations have been made against him which must be ignored.”
It was obvious whose side he had been on. It was no surprise. For all their show of friendship in the past, and the fact that Louis’s daughter was married to Henry’s son, they were enemies and, I feared, always would be.
The return of the messengers brought on another of Henry’s rages, which were becoming more and more frequent—and it was all due to Becket. That man was the most important person in his life and always would be until the death of one of them.
He turned to me. There was a certain bewilderment about him, as though he were asking me where he had gone wrong. I felt pity for him and a slight return of the affection I had once had for him. Over that Christmas we were together again—not as we had been in the beginning, but Henry was a very sensual man and he did gain comfort from physical contact.
Our children made a bond between us. Henry’s eyes would grow acquisitive as he discussed them. Through them he intended to govern the whole of France. Young Henry would be King of France one day. He had plans for Richard—another daughter of the King of France, young Alais—just to be on the safe side. Geoffrey? Well, there might be a marriage into Brittany for him. The whole of France would fall into Plantagenet hands. He was also thinking of our daughter, Matilda. She was eight years old now. Quite young, but it was not too soon to look around for her.
Then to my great dismay I found that I was once more pregnant. I had thought to be done with childbearing. I was nearly forty-three years old, and that was surely an age when I could expect to have a rest from the wearisome business. True, I was well preserved. I had always taken the utmost care of my appearance, and when a woman looks younger than her years she usually is. But there was no denying the facts: I was too old to want this now and in any case we had a good family—three boys and two girls; and I had had two by Louis before I began to breed Plantagenets.
However, what was, must be and I had to endure it, so I gave myself up to the contemplation of my daughter Matilda.
She was very dear to me—as all my children were, but Matilda had been my constant companion since her birth, and although we were very different in character—she was of a gentle nature, quiet and retiring—we were very close.
Henry, ever aware of the advancement of his family, had been putting out feelers for some time and he was delighted with the response he had had from Henry, Duke of Saxony and Bavaria, known through Europe as “Henry the Lion,” because he had proved bold and fearless.
I said: “He is a little old for Matilda, is he not?”
“What does age matter?” demanded Henry. “You are eleven years older than I. People shook their heads over that, did they not? And look at our fine brood.”
“Matilda is not yet nine years old. He is thirty-six. It is rather a lot.”
“I want this alliance,” said Henry. “A mature man will be best for Matilda. She is quiet and gentle. He will understand her better than a young man could.”
I thought there might be some truth in that, and I found out all I could about the proposed suitor.
His father, another Henry, was known as “the Proud” and was descended from the Guelphs from the noble house of Este, and his mother had been Gertrude, the only daughter of the Emperor Lothair, Duke of Saxony. This meant that Henry was the heir to two dukedoms; but as his father died when he was ten years old, he had had to struggle for his inheritance. He had distinguished himself and earned the sobriquet of “Henry the Lion” at an early age, and in time he dealt with his enemies and proclaimed himself Duke of Saxony and Bavaria.
Some twenty years before, he had been married to Clementia, the daughter of the Duke of Thuringia. From this marriage there had been only one daughter. As usual this was a cause for complaint, and after seventeen years the marriage ended in divorce—on the usual grounds of consanguinity, of course.
Now here he was seeking the hand of our Matilda.
There was trouble, as usual, in France. My own Aquitaine was a source of anxiety. My people had never settled under Henry’s rule. It was not what they had been accustomed to. They did not like the discipline he tried to impose upon them; they wanted their old style of government, when handsome and romantic men rode out to settle their differences with panache, and filled the Courts with laughter and song. Consequently there was trouble, and Henry could not stay in one place for long.
The conflict with Becket had kept him in England for two years. It was time he crossed the sea to govern his other possessions.
I was to remain in England.
Before Henry left, we received the embassy from Henry the Lion. It was necessary that they be treated with the utmost respect. It was a most splendid com
pany that arrived and we had to meet their grandeur with everything as fine ourselves. Royal unions were always costly, for each side had to outdo the other if that were possible and it ended in everyone’s being more extravagant than was wise.
There was inevitably trouble.
“It is a mercy that Becket is not here,” I said, “or this little matter would be blown up into a great one.”
This time it was about the controversy which was going on in papal circles. Henry had supported Pope Alexander while the Germans gave their allegiance to his rival, Paschal III. This meant that the clergy were not present to welcome the German embassy. It was indeed fortunate that Becket was not in England or there would certainly have been trouble. However, the priests, no doubt remembering Becket’s fate and not wishing to share a similar one, were determined not to offend the King, so they were particularly mild in their disapproval.
The necessary pledges were given, the contracts signed. I pleaded the wedding be postponed for say two years, when Matilda would be of a more suitable age. I had promised her I would insist on this and I was determined to fight Henry for the concession if need be.
He gave way. The relationship we had been enjoying since Christmas had softened him in that respect; he did see that his daughter was young to leave home—though, Heaven knew, many princesses had left at a much earlier age—and he did have some affection for his children. It was merely that he did not know how to show it.
However, I won the day and Matilda was to remain with me a little longer so that we could plan her trousseau at leisure and decide all she would want to take with her.
The child clung to me and told me she never wanted to leave me. That was gratifying, but it made me anxious about her. I soothed her and reminded her that it was the fate of all princesses to go away from their homes. “But that does not mean we shall not see each other,” I went on. “I shall come to see you. I am a great traveler, as you know. I am always on the move. I shall come to see how my Duchess of Saxony and Bavaria is faring.”