A light snowfall powdered the castle grounds and a fire burned brightly in the hearth of the king’s solar, which was festively adorned with holly, mistletoe, and evergreen boughs. But every spark of Christmas cheer had been quenched with the first halting words of Gilbert Foliot, for even his eloquence could find no way to make his news palatable: that Becket had been warmly received by both the Pope and the French king.
Henry was standing so close to the fireplace that he was in danger of being singed by its dancing flames, but he seemed oblivious of the heat. “Tell me,” he said tersely. “Hold nothing back.”
“We met with the French king at his castle of Compiegne, where we delivered your letter. I regret to say, my liege, that his piety has adversely affected his judgment. His natural inclination is to give any priest the benefit of every doubt, even when presented with proof of perjury and broken faith.”
That was a diplomatic and discreet rendering of the French king’s response, and none knew it better than Eleanor, who knew her first husband all too well. She glanced toward Henry to see if he was reading between the lines. But then the Bishop of Chichester tactlessly intervened with the truth.
“We sought to make him privy to the facts, Your Grace, but he was not wont to listen. ‘Who deposed the Archbishop of Canterbury?’ he asked. He said he was as much a king as the King of the English, but he did not have the power to depose the least of the clerks in his realm. Not only did he offer Becket asylum in his domains, he wrote to the Pope on Becket’s behalf, urging him to receive the archbishop with kindness and pay no heed to unjust accusations against him.”
Henry spat out an extremely profane oath, but whom it was meant for-Becket or the French king-none could be sure. “Go on,” he said harshly. “What happened at Sens?”
As Chichester showed no inclination to relinquish center stage and Foliot was willing to let him be the bearer of bad tidings, he was the one to tell Henry the rest, the worst. “We met with the Holy Father and the cardinals, and as you bade us, my liege, we privately urged the Archbishop of Canterbury’s deposition. Whilst I do not doubt that many of the cardinals would not mourn Becket’s departure, the Pope insisted that he could take no action until he heard the archbishop’s account of the Northampton council. Becket soon arrived, with a retinue of three hundred horsemen provided by the French king. He threw himself at the Holy Father’s feet, holding out a chirograph of the Constitutions of Clarendon.”
Chichester had always prided himself upon his remarkable memory and he could not resist quoting now from Becket’s own words. “He said, ‘Behold, Holy Father, the customs of the King of the English, opposed to the canons and decretals and even the laws of secular princes, for which we are driven to endure exile.’ He then read out the clauses of the Constitutions, one by one, offering his own critical analysis of each article, and although Cardinal William of Pavia made a spirited defense of the provisions, Becket’s view prevailed. He then…”
Chichester paused for maximum dramatic impact and Henry’s eyes flashed dangerously. “What?”
“Becket was ever one for the grand gesture,” Chichester said scornfully. “He knelt again, began to weep, and resigned the archbishopric of Canterbury for the good of the Church, he said, and offered his archiepiscopal ring to the Holy Father. Alas, my liege, the Holy Father was moved by his tears and returned the ring, saying ‘Receive anew at our hands the cure of the episcopal office.’ ”
Everyone in the solar understood the significance of the Pope’s act. The appeal of the other bishops for Becket’s deposition would come to naught. Nor would Henry’s complaints to the Holy See. Thomas Becket would remain as Archbishop of Canterbury, with the Pope’s blessings-and there was nothing Henry could do about it.
There was a prolonged silence, fraught with foreboding, and then the inevitable explosion. Henry’s tempers were known to them all, but even Eleanor had never seen him in such a spectacular rage as this. A sweep of his arm sent the contents of the trestle table flying off into space, books and quill pens and an open inkwell spilling into the floor rushes. With a crash that reverberated throughout the entire room, the table followed, barely missing one of Eleanor’s alarmed greyhounds. The men shrank back from this violent display of royal wrath, only the king’s wife and his cousin Roger standing their ground. Henry overturned a chair, then swung around upon Gilbert Foliot.
“I shall issue an order confiscating all of that whoreson’s possessions down to the last farthing and the forfeiture of the archbishopric. No bishop of mine shall pay revenues to any of Becket’s clerks holding prebends within their sees. Will any Church objections be raised to my writ, my lord bishop?”
Foliot swallowed. “No, my liege… no objections.”
“Now… what burrow has our snake found for the winter? Is he still at the Papal Curia in Sens?”
“No, Your Grace,” Foliot said swiftly, grateful that he had at least a scrap of good news to offer Henry. “The Holy Father’s actions were not as one-sided as the Bishop of Chichester related. Whilst he did refuse Becket’s resignation and condemned the Constitutions of Clarendon, he did not censure me or my fellow bishops as Becket expected, and he most certainly did not make him welcome at the papal court. He has sent Becket off to the Cistercian abbey at Pontigny. So you see, my liege, all is not as bleak as it might first have seemed.”
His words did not have the desired effect. They did not even seem to have registered with Henry. “Pontigny,” he echoed. “Good… let them go there then and seek shelter from him.”
Foliot looked confused; nor was he the only one. “Who, my lord king?” the Earl of Arundel asked in bewilderment. “Who shall seek shelter?”
“All of Becket’s household still in England, and their kin as well. They are to join him in exile, every last one of them. Let him see for himself what misery he has brought upon his own. And let the French king provide for their bread if Becket will not!”
The others were speechless, staring at him in disbelief. Oddly enough, it was the opportunist who spoke up first. Hilary of Chichester cleared his throat, then said hesitantly, “My liege, I implore you to reconsider. If you banish all of Becket’s family and clerks, I fear you will be harshly judged for it by your enemies.”
“Let them! You think I care?”
“My liege…” Gilbert Foliot had never lacked for courage-until now. “I think once your anger cools, you will not want to-”
“Who are you to tell me what I want? Becket should have thought of the consequences when he fled in the night like a thief. There is always a price to be paid for betrayal and he is about to find that out, by God!” The disapproval Henry saw reflected on their faces only fanned his fury all the higher. Gesturing toward the door, he ordered them all out. “After failing me so abysmally in Compiegne and Sens, why should I listen to you now? Go on, get out!”
They did, some hastily enough to compromise their dignity. Only Roger dared to protest further. Reaching the door, he paused, meeting his cousin’s eyes without flinching. “This is wrong, Harry,” he said in a low voice. “Wrong and unjust.”
He did not linger; he knew better than that. As the door closed behind him, Henry swore again. But before he could react, a cushion was suddenly shoved into his hand. “Here,” Eleanor said. “If you must destroy something, fling this about. It is much easier to mend a pillow than a table.”
Henry was not amused. “I’m glad you’re taking it in such good humor that I’ve just been stabbed in the back by that gutless weasel you married!”
“A pity there is no way you can blame Becket’s misdeeds on me, too!”
“If you are about to remind me that you opposed Becket’s elevation to the archbishopric, trust me, Eleanor-this is not the time!”
“Actually, I have a far more recent grievance. I entreated you not to send Louis that letter, warned you it would do you more harm than good, did I not? And as usual, you paid me no heed whatsoever!”
“For the love of Christ, woman, let i
t lie! Can you not see that I’m in no mood to deal with this now?”
“Fine,” she said tartly. “Forget about Louis and the fact that you were the one to provide the dagger for that back-stabbing. Let’s talk, instead, about your plan to banish those poor souls whose only offense is that they are related to Becket either by blood or service. Surely you do not mean that, Harry.”
“Surely I do.”
“Then this interminable feuding with Becket has well and truly addled your mind!”
“This is none of your concern! I am heartily sick of your meddling, Eleanor, will have no more of it!”
“If you bid me be silent, then of course I will,” Eleanor responded, with poisonous sweetness, “for like any dutiful and devoted wife, I live only to please you.” With a deep, graceful curtsy, she swept toward the door, where she paused, her hand on the latch, a quizzical smile upon her face. “About that ‘weasel’ I married… You were referring to Louis, were you not?”
He glared at her. “Damn you, Eleanor!”
“Likewise, my love,” she retorted, and left him alone in the solar.
On the day after Christmas, Henry followed through on his threat and expelled as many as four hundred people, including Becket’s sisters and nephews, his clerks and servants and their families. A steady steam of refugees made their miserable way to Pontigny and Thomas Becket was indeed distressed, as Henry had intended. But it was a Pyrrhic victory, one that left a lasting stain upon Henry’s honor and his reputation.
Henry and Eleanor patched up their Christmas Eve quarrel the way they usually did, in bed, and when they departed Marlborough, she was pregnant again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
May 1165
Trefriw, North Wales
War had come to Wales, but the first battle was being fought in the great hall of Rhodri’s manor in the hills above Trefriw. The summons from the English king had erupted in their midst with devastating impact, as incendiary as Greek fire and as difficult to extinguish. For days now, the quarrel had raged and showed no signs of abating. Rhodri had argued with Ranulf until his voice cracked. Eleri had been reduced to angry tears more than once, and Celyn had overcome his natural reticence to plead with surprising passion. Even the self-absorbed Enid had roused herself to observe that it would be folly to obey the summons, for if Ranulf fought against the Welsh, he would alienate his family and friends and neighbors beyond forgiving.
Ranulf already knew that. He was painfully aware how high the stakes were. If he answered the summons, he was likely to forfeit all that he held most dear in this life. But if he did not? Disloyalty to his king was a sin of such magnitude that it was almost beyond his comprehension. It went to the very core of his integrity, his identity. He had supported his sister over Stephen and never wavered in that allegiance because Maude’s claim was just and Stephen’s was not, even after it cost him the woman he loved. Harry was his liege lord, his blood kin. Could he betray that bond-and live with it afterward?
An exhausted truce had finally fallen and dinner was served in a dismal silence. As it was a Friday fast day, their cook had broiled a large pike, taken from the manor’s fish pond. Swimming in a pungent mustard sauce, fresh pike was a delicacy. But now much of it went untouched; only the younger children seemed to have an appetite. Rhodri was pushing his fish around on his trencher with his knife, Rhiannon intent upon feeding Morgan, Celyn crumbling a crust of the bread baked to cater to Ranulf ’s English tastes, and Ranulf slipping surreptitious mouthfuls of pike to Blaidd, his Norwegian dyrehund.
Eleri was the one to crack first, flinging her napkin down with an oath. “For the love of God, Ranulf, look around you! This is your home. For fifteen years, your home. How can you throw it all away like this? If you love my sister as you claim, you must-”
Rhiannon let her get no further. “Eleri, enough! I do not need you to speak for me. We’ve heard you out, each one of you. You’ve had your say. Now let it be. When Ranulf decides what he must do, we will tell you. Till then, this serves for naught.”
Ranulf’s throat tightened; what had he done to deserve this woman? But even as he reached for his wife’s hand, their son sprang to his feet, shoving his chair back so violently that it toppled over. “I’ve not had my say!” Gilbert’s face was flushed, his voice unsteady. “If you answer the English king’s summons, you are betraying Lord Owain!”
“Ah, lad,” Ranulf said softly, “if only it were that simple.”
“I will be fourteen by year’s end, so do not treat me like a child! At fourteen, I will be old enough to fight against our enemies-against the English! And if you fight with them, you’ll be the enemy, too!”
Gilbert’s voice choked and he wheeled, bolting for the door as Ranulf jumped to his feet and Rhiannon cried out his name. The boy reached the door just as it opened and he collided head-on with Hywel, whose arrival out in the bailey had gone unnoticed in all the uproar. Gilbert staggered backward and Hywel caught his arm as if to steady him, effectively blocking his flight.
“Easy, lad,” he said with a smile. “The last time I saw someone move this fast, his tunic was on fire. Is dinner done then?”
Gilbert tried to wrench free and failed; over the youth’s head, Hywel’s eyes sought Ranulf’s in a silent question. Ranulf hesitated, then slowly nodded. Better to give the lad some time to calm down. But he knew that he was deluding himself. An eternity’s worth of time was not likely to bring Gilbert around to his way of thinking.
Hywel’s arrival had defused the tension, at least temporarily. Accepting Enid’s invitation to dine with them, he kept them entertained with the latest court gossip, then shared the more serious news-that the English king had returned from Normandy, doubtless upon learning of Davydd ab Owain’s raid into Tegeingl. Moving with his usual lightning speed, Henry had led a quick expedition to relieve his castles at Rhuddlan and Basingwerk, then withdrew back across the border to organize a full-scale invasion intended for that summer. When Rhodri said glumly that they already knew of the English king’s plans for war, Hywel showed no surprise. His father’s surveillance system rivaled, if not surpassed, those of the English and French kings and the exiled Archbishop of Canterbury, and within a day of Ranulf ’s royal summons, Owain had known about it.
As the evening wore on, a patchy, pale mist drifted in from the Menai Straits, slowly engulfing the river valley and eventually reaching the hillside manor above Trefriw. One by one, the family members retired for the night, and Hywel’s men bedded down in the hall. A fire burned erratically in the hearth as the last of the log was consumed. By midnight, the only ones still awake were Hywel and Ranulf.
Reaching for the flagon, Ranulf emptied it into their cups. “I think there is more mead in the buttery.”
“Then I’d better fetch it, for if you stagger off in search of the buttery, God only knows where you’ll end up.”
“Are you implying that I’ve had too much to drink, Hywel?”
“No… I’d say you have not had enough. If you are going to drown your troubles, you might as well do it right. The aim is to blot out all the voices.”
“What voices?”
“The voice of reason, to start with. Then the voice of conscience. But we’ve only had two flagons… or was it three? Based on my experience, it will take at least four. The conscience, in particular, floats like a cork… devilishly difficult to drown.”
Ranulf laughed, but it had a sad sound to it. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you?”
“No…”
“That was not a very convincing denial,” Ranulf complained and Hywel submerged a grin in his mead cup.
“Indeed, you are no fool. In fact, you are about as far from a fool as a man can get. Is that better?”
“But…?”
“But you do have a few bad habits-one of which is that you invariably hope for the best instead of preparing for the worst. Our people have a saying, Ranulf, that you ought to take to heart: that it is dangerous to run with the hares and hunt wi
th the hounds.”
“When you say ‘our people,’ Hywel, that does still include me?”
Hywel set his cup down in surprise. “Of course. You’re Welsh by choice as well as by blood-your besotted loyalty to the English king notwithstanding!”
Ranulf knew that the other man was joking, but it was difficult for him to find much humor in his plight. “I understand why your father and Rhys ap Gruffydd and the others have rebelled, God’s Truth, I do. How could I blame them for wanting to free Wales from a foreign yoke?”
“But you also understand why Henry feels compelled to crush that rebellion.”
Ranulf nodded miserably. “Yes,” he admitted, “I do. As king, he has no choice.” He snatched up his mead cup and drained it, too fast. “I understand too much for my own damned good.” Shoving the empty cup across the table, he leaned forward, cradling his head on his arms. “But God help me, for I still do not know what I will do…”
Hywel finished his own drink, then reached for a spare blanket on a nearby bench. Draping it over Ranulf’s shoulders, he stood for a moment, gazing down at his sleeping friend. “God help you,” he murmured, “for you do know…”
Hywel departed the next day, as did Eleri and Celyn and their children. Quiet settled over the manor like a tattered, faded quilt, too worn to offer much comfort. On Sunday, Ranulf’s family heard Mass at Llanrhychwyn, a small church nestled in the hills above Trefriw. Ranulf loved this whitewashed stone chapel shadowed by towering yew trees; it was here that he and Rhiannon had been wed on Shrove Tuesday fifteen years ago. As the parishioners filed out into the cool May sunlight, he caught Rhiannon’s hand and led her toward a corner of the churchyard. There were tombstones there, green with moss, and the woodland scents perfumed their every breath. When he described for her a hawk gliding on the air currents high above their heads, Rhiannon smiled and then said, “You are going to answer the English king’s summons.”
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