Time and Chance

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Just do not give him his castles back this time,” Will chided, in a tactless reminder of Henry’s earlier, misplaced leniency. “It would serve him right if he had to beg his bread by the roadside.”

  “Sorry, lad, but Scriptures forbid it. Thomas can doubtless cite you chapter and verse,” Henry gibed, “but I am sure it says somewhere that brothers of kings cannot be beggars.”

  “I thought it said that brothers of beggars cannot be kings.” Becket tasted the wine, then grimaced. “Are your servants trying to poison you with this swill, Harry? Someone ought to tell them that hemlock would be quicker and more merciful.”

  “This is why men would rather dine with my lord chancellor than with me,” Henry told Will. “He’d drink blood ere he quaffed English wine. Whereas for me, it is enough if it is wet!” Becket’s riposte was cut off by a sudden knock. Henry, the closest to the door, got to his feet; he was never one to stand on ceremony. But his amusement faded when a weary, travel-stained messenger was ushered into the chamber, for the man’s disheveled appearance conveyed a message of its own: that his news was urgent.

  Snatching up the proffered letter, Henry stared at the familiar seal, then looked over at Will. “It is from our mother,” he said, moving toward the nearest lamp. Will and Becket were both on their feet by now, watching intently as he read. “I have to go to Rouen,” he said, “straightaway.”

  Will paled. “Not Mama . . . ?”

  “No, lad, no. She is not ailing. She has written to let me know that Eleanor is in Rouen.”

  IF THE ENGLISH KING’S WIFE had a remarkable history, so, too, did his mother. Sent to Germany as a child to wed the Holy Roman Emperor, Maude had been summoned back to England by her father, the king, after her husband’s death. Forced into a miserable marriage with the Count of Anjou, Maude had sought comfort in their sons and in her hopes of succeeding to the English throne. But her crown was usurped by her cousin Stephen, and she’d fought a long and bloody civil war to reclaim it, fought and failed. She would never be England’s queen, and that was a grievance she’d take to her grave. But she’d lived to see her son avenge her loss, and she took consolation in his kingship, a bittersweet satisfaction in his victory, one that had been denied her.

  Maude had continued to make use of the regal title of empress even after her marriage to Count Geoffrey of Anjou, and she still did so, although she no longer lived in a regal style. The woman who’d sought a throne with such single-minded intensity had chosen to pass her twilight years in the cloistered quiet of Nôtre-Dame-du-Pré, dwelling in the guest quarters of the priory on the outskirts of Rouen. But upon her grieving daughter-in-law’s arrival from England, she’d made haste to join Eleanor in residence at the castle.

  A summer storm had drenched the city at dusk, and rain still fell hours later. Maude had ordered a fire built in the great hall’s center hearth, and she was stitching an elegant altar cloth by the light of the flickering flames; needlework was the lot of all women, even queens. She was not surprised when a servant announced that her son had ridden into the bailey, for Henry never let the weather interfere with his plans; he’d sailed in a winter gale to claim England’s crown.

  Within moments, he’d swept into the hall, and as always, her spirits soared at the sight of him. Flinging off his sodden mantle, he gave her a damp hug and she resisted the impulse to urge him closer to the fire. He’d just laugh and remind her that he was twenty-three, nigh on two years a king, no longer a stripling in need of a mother’s coddling.

  Maude suppressed a sigh. Henry had reached manhood years ago, but she doubted if Geoffrey would ever cross the border into that adult domain. She very much feared that he’d be as irresponsible and immature at forty as he’d been at sixteen, as he was now at two and twenty. “I do hope you brought an escort,” she said, half-seriously, for Henry was known for traveling fast and light.

  “Only those who could keep up with me.” Henry strode over to greet Minna, the elderly German widow who’d been his mother’s companion since her girlhood at the imperial court. Minna beamed and blushed when he kissed her cheek; in her eyes, Henry could do no wrong. Even when he’d hired mercenaries and sailed for England to help his mother in her war against Stephen—at the ripe age of fourteen—Minna had found excuses for his reckless folly. Maude rarely joked, but she sometimes teased Minna that if she saw Henry slit a man’s throat, she’d claim it was just a very close shave.

  Beckoning Henry away from Minna, Maude touched her hand gently to his face and then said, low-voiced, “What mean you to do with Geoffrey?”

  “I would to God I knew. . . .” He found a smile for her, hoping it might give her the reassurance that his words could not. But then Geoffrey was forgotten and he was striding hastily toward the woman just entering the hall. She was a sight to draw most male eyes, a slim, dark-haired daughter of the South, the Lady Petronilla, widowed Countess of Vermandois, his sister by marriage.

  “How is she, Petra?”

  “How do you think? Hurting.” Petronilla’s green eyes were coolly appraising. He supposed she blamed him for not being with Eleanor when she’d most needed him and he resented the injustice of that, but not enough to stay and argue with her. Instead, he went to find his wife.

  CRESSET LAMPS still burned in the nursery. A young wet-nurse was drowsing by the fire, a swaddled baby suckling hungrily at an ample breast. The infant paid no heed to Henry’s entry, but the woman jumped to her feet, flustered and stammering as she sought to cover herself. Henry ordinarily had an appreciative eye for female charms. Now, though, he hardly glanced at the girl’s exposed bosom. “Let me see my daughter,” he said, and she hastily complied.

  The baby wailed in protest as her meal was interrupted, showing she had a healthy set of lungs. Her hair was wispy and soft, as bright as the flames licking at the hearth log, and her tiny face was reddening, puckered up into a fretful pout. Henry stroked her cheek with his forefinger and then handed her back to the nurse.

  There were two cradles, but there ought to have been three. That missing bed cut at Henry’s heart like the thrust of a sword. His eyes stinging, he halted by one of the cradles, gazing down at his second son and namesake. Hal was sucking on his thumb, the firelight gleaming on his cap of curly fair hair, and even in sleep, his resemblance to his dead brother was wrenching. Henry was tempted to wake him up. He was afraid, though, that the little boy would not remember him. He’d been gone for the past six of the child’s sixteen months on earth.

  Will would have known him. But he’d been away so often in Will’s pitifully brief life, too. He’d meant to be a good father, to forge a bond with his sons that could never be broken. His own childhood had been a turbulent one, he and his brothers held hostage upon the battlefield that his parents had made of their marriage. He’d wanted to do better by his children, and when the duties of kingship relegated them to the outer edges of his life, he told himself that it could not be helped, that there would be time later to make amends for these lost, early years. But for Will, there would be no more time, no more chances. For Will, it was too late—for them both, too late.

  ELEANOR HAD NOT yet undressed, but she’d unbound her hair and it cascaded down her back in dark swirls and spirals, flowing toward her hips. Henry’s pulse still quickened at the sight of her, even after four years of marriage. She’d obviously been told of his arrival, for she showed no surprise. They’d often been separated for months at a time, had been apart for more than a year when he’d been fighting in England to regain his stolen birthright. Their reunions had always been incendiary; Henry could remember days when they’d never even left their bed. This was the first time that no passion flared between them. Crossing the chamber, he kissed her gently on the corner of her mouth, and they stood for several moments in a wordless embrace.

  “I am sorry,” he said softly, “that I was not there . . .”

  “So was I.” Eleanor’s hazel eyes had darkened. “It was dreadful, Harry. Once the fever took him, those fool
doctors were useless. You know Will, he was never quiet, never still for a moment. And to see him lying in that bed, getting weaker and weaker . . . It was like watching a candle burn out, and there was nothing I could do.” Her mouth twisted. “Nothing!”

  Henry’s throat constricted. His only defense against such pain was to push it away. “Do you want some wine?” She shook her head, but he went over to the table and poured a cupful from the flagon nonetheless. “I saw the baby. She looks like you.”

  “No, she does not,” Eleanor said, so sharply that he swung away from the table, the wine sloshing over the rim of the cup. “I do not want to talk about the baby, Harry, not now. Tell me . . . did you weep for Will?”

  “Of course I did!”

  “Did anyone see you shed those tears?” When he frowned, she said, “No . . . I thought not.”

  “What is this about, Eleanor? You blame me for not being there? Petra clearly does, but I expected better of you. Christ Jesus, woman, I was putting down a rebellion in Anjou, not roistering in the bawdy-houses of Paris!”

  “I do not blame you for not being with me then, Harry. I blame you for not being with me now!”

  “I damned near killed my horse getting here!”

  “That is not enough, not nearly enough!”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “We could not bury our child together. But I thought that at least we could grieve for him together!”

  “You dare to say I do not mourn our son?”

  She did not flinch from his anger. “No, I know you do. But I need you to mourn with me.” She looked at him and then slowly shook her head. “You cannot do that, can you? You trust no one enough to let down your guard, not even me.”

  “This serves for naught,” he said tautly. He was still holding the dripping wine cup and fought back an impulse to fling it against the wall. Setting it down, very deliberately, upon the table, he strode toward the door. He slid the bolt back, but then his fingers clenched on the latch. After a long moment, he turned reluctantly to face his wife.

  “Do you truly want to quarrel with me, Eleanor?”

  Her shoulders sagged. “No,” she said bleakly, “no, I do not . . .”

  Coming back into the room, he stopped before her and held out his hand. Her eyes flicked to the jagged scar that tracked across his palm toward his thumb. “How did you do that?”

  “I was hearing Mass when they brought me word of Will’s death. I put my fist through a stained-glass window.”

  She ran her fingers lightly over the scar, and when he took her into his arms, she shuddered, then clung fast. “Come on, love,” he said, “let’s go to bed.”

  She nodded, letting him lead her toward the bed. Kicking off her shoes, she started to remove her stockings, then gave him an oblique glance through her lashes. “Do you want to help?”

  His surprise was obvious. “It is not too soon?”

  “Maude was born on the second Wednesday after Whitsun, and today is the twenty-third. That makes six weeks by my count.”

  “Two days short,” Henry said; he’d always been good at math.

  Eleanor lay back against the pillows. “Would you rather wait?”

  “I’ve never been one for waiting,” he said and kissed her, softly at first, until her arms went up around his neck. When he spoke again, his voice was husky and he sounded out of breath. “You were wrong about my not trusting anyone. I may be wary of the rest of mankind, but I do trust you, my mother, and Thomas Becket.”

  Eleanor’s eyes shone in the firelight, golden and catlike. “Not necessarily in that order,” she murmured, and after that, they had no further need of words, finding in their lovemaking a familiar pleasure and even a small measure of solace.

  CHAPTER TWO

  May 1157

  St John’s Abbey

  Colchester, England

  ADAME, WAIT!” The hospitaller hurried along the cloister walkway, hoping to intercept the queen before she reached her destination: the abbey chapter house. He did not have high expectations of success, but he had to try. A woman—even a highborn one—could not be allowed to wander at will in this hallowed sanctum of holy men. He was taken aback when Eleanor stopped abruptly, then swung around to face him.

  “You wish to speak with me, Brother Clement?”

  “Indeed, Madame, I . . . I wanted to show you our herb gardens.”

  “That is kind of you, but I’ve already seen them.”

  He could think of no other pretext, could only blurt out the truth. “My lady, forgive me for speaking so boldly, but you do not want to enter the chapter house just now. The lord king and our abbot and Archbishop Theobald are discussing a Church matter and . . . and so lovely a lady would be bound to be a distraction.”

  His patronizing attempt at gallantry had Eleanor’s ladies, Barbe and Melisent, avoiding each other’s gaze lest they burst out laughing. No monk in Aquitaine would have dared to presume so, but this English monk clearly knew little of his young king’s consort. Grateful that they were to be present at his epiphany, they smiled at him with malicious mischief that he, in his innocence, took for coquetry.

  His sudden blush made him look so young and vulnerable that Eleanor felt a glimmer of pity and chose not to prolong his ordeal. “Your ‘Church matter’ is, in actuality, a trial, Brother Clement. When the Bishop of Chichester sought to exercise jurisdiction over the abbey at Battle, the abbot balked, contending that the abbey was exempted from episcopal authority by royal charter. Eventually this dispute came before my lord husband, the king, and we expect the issue to be resolved today.”

  The hospitaller was staring at her, mouth agape, and she wasted no more time in driving the stiletto home. “Now you may escort me to the chapter house,” she said in a tone that he recognized at once, for all that it was sheathed in silk: the voice of authority, absolute and indisputable.

  Eleanor’s entrance put a temporary halt to the proceedings. The chamber was studded with stars of the Church: the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Archbishop of York, the Bishops of Chichester, Hereford, and Winchester. Eleanor harbored genuine respect only for the venerable Theobald of Canterbury. York and Chichester she considered to be self-seekers, men whose ambitions were thoroughly secular in nature. She did not know Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of Hereford, well enough to assess, and the aged Bishop of Winchester she utterly mistrusted, for he was the brother of the usurping Stephen, damned both by blood and history.

  Henry was seated in a high-backed chair, more formally attired than usual for this was Whitsuntide, one of the rare times when he wore his crown. He was flanked by lords of his court: his brother Will; his uncle Rainald, Earl of Cornwall; the Earls of Leicester and Salisbury; his justiciar, Richard de Lucy; and his chancellor, Thomas Becket. Sitting nearby was the other litigant, Walter de Lucy, who was both brother to Henry’s justiciar and abbot of St Martin’s at Battle, the abbey under episcopal siege. The abbot was looking so complacent that Eleanor assumed the tide must be going his way.

  The churchmen were regarding her with poorly disguised disapproval. They were far more worldly than the abbey’s hapless hospitaller, though, and none raised any objections to her presence, however unseemly they considered it. As she glanced toward Thomas Becket, Eleanor thought she detected the faintest shadow of disfavor, but if so, it was swiftly gone. Coming toward her with the grave courtliness that was his hallmark, he escorted her to a front-row seat, and she conceded that his manners were impeccable even if he did come from the merchant class. He found a cushion for her bench, which she graciously accepted; she was in her fifth month of another pregnancy and inclined to take what comforts she could get. She looked over then at Henry, curious to see how he was responding to her intrusion. She doubted that he’d be troubled by her trampling upon tradition, and he justified her confidence; as their eyes met, a corner of his mouth curved slightly and he winked.

  Abbot Walter had royal charters from the last three kings; if he had one from Stephen, too, he was wise
enough not to mention it. Becket was passing them to the king for Henry’s inspection. As he did, the justiciar continued the argument Eleanor had interrupted: that the wishes of the abbey’s founder, King William of blessed memory, ought to be honored, and his wishes were clearly set forth in the charter.

  Eleanor was not surprised to see the bishops frowning at that; even Theobald, a man so good-hearted that some saw him as saintly, was jealous of the Church’s prerogatives, ever vigilant for Crown encroachment into clerical domains. Emboldened by the support of his fellow prelates, the Bishop of Chichester launched a counterattack, insisting that to exempt the abbey from episcopal jurisdiction was to violate canon law.

  “The ‘wishes’ of King William, may God assoil him, are therefore not relevant, much less dispositive. I daresay he did want to exempt his abbey, as contended by Abbot Walter’s brother, the justiciar.” Chichester paused, then, to make sure that none in the room missed his unspoken accusation: that the abbot was trading upon his connections with one of the king’s chief officers. “But not even a king’s wishes can always prevail. Would a king be able to amend canon law to meet his own needs? No more than he could depose one of his bishops!”

  Henry leaned over to murmur something to Thomas Becket, too softly for other ears to hear. Becket grinned, and Henry then turned his gaze upon Chichester. “Very true,” he agreed amiably, “a bishop cannot be deposed. But he can be driven out.” He demonstrated by pantomiming a shove, and the chamber erupted into the indulgent laughter that a king’s humor could inevitably evoke, no matter how lame the sally.

  Chichester was not about to be sidetracked by a jest he found dubious at best. “The spiritual power of the Holy Mother Church must not be diminished or debased by temporal authority. No layman, not even a king, can confer ecclesiastical liberties or exemptions without the consent of the Pope. Therefore, since the original act of King William in granting a charter was ultra vires, it must stand that the exemption, too, was invalid.”