Time and Chance

by Sharon Kay Penman

  CHAPTER TEN

  January 1161

  Nôtre-Dame-du-Pré

  Rouen, Normandy

  HENRY CROSSED to the settle and kissed his mother on the cheek. The fact that she’d received him in her private chamber warned him that she had a lecture in mind; she would never berate him, a crowned king and God’s anointed, before witnesses.

  “Did you grant that charter to the canons of St Bartholomew, Henry?”

  “I did, Mother. You know I always heed your advice.”

  Aware that she was being teased, Maude ignored the bait, refusing to be diverted. “I assume your men are being fed in the hall? What of your chancellor? Did he accompany you to the priory?”

  “No, I sent Thomas to Caen, as I’ve decided to found a leper hospital there.” Henry was not deceived by the casualness of her query. So Thomas was the quarry for this hunt. “Did you wish to speak with him, Mother?” he asked innocently. “He’ll be back in Rouen within the fortnight.”

  “I have a bone to pick with your chancellor . . . as you’ve guessed. But I have one to pick with you, too, Henry. I have received a distressing letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury. He tells me that his illness is mortal, and it is his dearest wish that he see the two men he loves so well, you and Thomas, ere he dies. Yet he says he has been entreating you both for months to return to England, entreating you in vain.”

  “I would if I could,” Henry said tersely, trying and failing to keep a defensive note from creeping into his voice. “You know how busy I’ve been, what demands are made upon my time. Not only did I have to construct three castles at Gisors, Neaupple, and Château-Neuf-sur-Epte, but I also had to lay siege to Chaumont Castle, and then fortify Amboise and Fretteville. Aside from holding a brief Christmas court at Le Mans, I’ve been all but sleeping in the saddle for months.”

  “I understand that, Henry. Yet surely you could have spared Thomas? It is his presence that Theobald truly yearns for. You are his king, but Thomas was like a son to him.”

  “Again, I can only repeat that I would if I could.” Henry sounded irritated, but evasive, too, and Maude subjected him to a moment of intent scrutiny.

  “Thomas does not want to return to England, does he?”

  Henry frowned. “It is not as simple as that. Thomas harbors a deep affection for the archbishop, has fond memories of his years in Theobald’s service. But he serves the Crown now . . . and serves it well, I might add. I have need of his talents, do not—”

  “I do not believe,” Maude said impatiently, “that you would have denied him if he’d asked you for leave to visit the archbishop on his deathbed, a good and godly man to whom he owes so much.” When Henry did not respond, she shook her head in dismayed perplexity. “I should have guessed! The archbishop’s letter made mention of the multitude of excuses you and Becket have been offering for his absence. The truth is that he cannot be bothered to go back.”

  Henry’s scowl deepened. He’d long suspected that his mother had no liking for his chancellor, and she’d just confirmed it by her disdainful use of Thomas’s surname; sensitive to slights, real or imagined, about his humble origins, the chancellor preferred to call himself Thomas of London.

  “You are not being fair,” he insisted. “Thomas does grieve for the archbishop’s malady, as do I. But he has vast responsibilities, ones that go beyond overseeing the chancellory. He advises me on a host of other matters, too. I think it is greatly to his credit that he takes these duties so seriously.”

  Maude’s sense of decorum did not permit her to snort or roll her eyes, but her skepticism showed plainly upon her face. “Does it not concern you, Henry, that your chancellor shrugs off old loyalties with such ease?”

  “No,” Henry said and annoyed her then by grinning. “He is not likely to find a greater patron than the king, after all!”

  “I want you to promise me, Henry,” she persisted, “that you will do your utmost to see that your chancellor is at the archbishop’s deathbed.”

  He hesitated, for although he often handled the truth without care, he did not want to lie to her. “I will try,” he said at last, and Maude had to be satisfied with that.

  A PALE APRIL SUN dappled the ancient mulberry tree in the courtyard of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s palace. Men hastened to assist the Bishop of Rochester in dismounting, showing more than the usual deference due his rank; he was also the younger brother of the dying Archbishop. As he was ushered into the great hall, he became aware of the somber atmosphere, more so than on past visits. Monks daubed with napkins at swollen, reddened eyes, and none seemed willing to meet Rochester’s gaze. He glanced toward the door that led to the archbishop’s private chambers at the east end of the hall. But before he could move, it swung open and John of Salisbury, the archbishop’s private secretary, emerged from the stairwell. One look at his haggard, tear-streaked face and Rochester knew.

  “I am sorry, my lord,” John said softly. And it was then that the great bells of the cathedral began to toll, slow and stately peals that would soon be echoing across England, mourning the passing of Canterbury’s archbishop.

  IN MAY OF THAT YEAR, fighting broke out again in the Vexin between the kings of England and France. In September, Henry’s queen gave birth to their sixth child and second daughter at Domfront Castle in Normandy; they named the baby Eleanor. In October, the warring kings met at Fréteval and made a fleeting, fragile peace.

  SITUATED BY THE RIVER VARENNE , Nôtre Dame sur l’Eau was one of the oldest churches in Domfront; it was also prosperous and well maintained. Eleanor had deemed it suitable for the baptism of her daughter and namesake two months earlier. It was in honor of that auspicious occasion that Henry had chosen to hear Mass at Nôtre Dame on this cold, blustery morning in Martinmas week. Beaming at this public display of royal favor, the priest accompanied the king and his chancellor as far as the road, as did his parishioners and passersby drawn by the commotion. Henry ordered the distribution of alms, but as they rode up the hill toward the castle, he found himself being chided by his chancellor for not having been more generous.

  “I am very openhanded in my alms giving,” he protested, “always provide a tithe for God’s poor.”

  “Yes, you do,” Becket acknowledged. “But you should ever bear in mind how the Lord Christ admonished his disciples: ‘Beware of practicing your piety before men in order to be seen by them; for then you will have no reward from your Father Who is in Heaven. Thus, when you give alms, sound no trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may be praised by men. . . . But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be in secret; and your Father Who sees in secret will reward you.’ ”

  Henry sighed, thinking that when Thomas was in one of his sententious moods, he could put the sainted Bernard of Clairvaux to shame. “This from the man who gives alms out so lavishly and publicly that he’s caused at least two riots in the streets of London!”

  Becket glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Ah, but that is different. I am acting as the king’s instrument, bestowing largesse lavishly so that credit might rebound to the greater glory of my sovereign!”

  Henry stifled a laugh. “I am indeed fortunate to have such a selfless, benevolent servant, willing to make such sacrifices upon my behalf.” By now they were riding along the High Street and he happened to notice an elderly beggar, shivering in ragged, dirty garments as he trudged toward them. “Do you see that old man? How poor he is, how scantily clad? Would it not be an act of charity to give him a thick, warm cloak?”

  “It would indeed, my lord king.”

  Reining in his stallion, Henry smiled at the old man. “Tell me, friend, would you like a good cloak?”

  The beggar blinked up at him warily, for he’d long ago learned that the humor of the highborn could be both incomprehensible and dangerous. “Yes, my lord,” he mumbled, feeling it was safer to agree with whatever craziness they were u
p to.

  Henry grinned at Becket. “There you are, a God-given opportunity. But you shall have all the credit for this act of charity.” Leaning out of the saddle, he grasped the hood of the chancellor’s new mantle and pulled. Becket resisted and a tug of war ensued, with both men at imminent risk of falling off their horses as they struggled over the cloak. The rest of Henry’s retinue had ridden up, shouting questions, baffled by the sight of their king and his chancellor tussling like rowdy apprentices. When it became apparent that Henry was determined to prevail, Becket yielded up his mantle, although with obvious reluctance.

  After calming his fractious stallion, Henry gave the mantle to the astonished beggar and then explained to the others what had occurred. Midst much laughter, several of the men offered the chancellor their own mantles. He accepted a cloak from one of his chancellory clerks, casting a regretful glance back at his lost mantle, a finely woven wool of scarlet and grey, and when Henry jokingly reminded him that “ ‘The Lord loveth a cheerful giver,’ ” he laughed, too, saying that he was honored to have no less a tutor than the King of England instructing him in “ ‘the good and right way.’ ”

  Clutching the cloak to his chest, the beggar found himself surrounded by men who’d rarely had a kind word for him, much less a coin. Now, though, they were smiling and slapping him on the back, congrat ulating him on his good fortune. Several even offered to buy him a drink at the local tavern. He was sorely tempted, but as he looked at these spectators crowding around him, he saw how their eyes caressed and coveted his fine new mantle and he realized that he who’d had nothing now had cause for fear. His anxious gaze flitted from face to face, seeking a protector. His relief was vast when a priest stepped from the crowd and suggested that he give thanks to Almighty God for this blessing.

  With some difficulty, the priest disengaged him from his newfound friends, steering him across the High Street toward the church precincts. “You must be heedful, Leonard, for there are those who would take advantage of your good fortune. Better that you shun those ne’er-do-wells who are always to be found in taverns and alehouses, no matter the time of day. They will be seeking to get the chancellor’s cloak, by guile or force if need be. It might be better if you gave it as an offering to the church . . . safer for you, I mean. I am sure we can find another cloak for you in the collection for the poor, one that is warm but not so tempting to the greedy or godless.”

  Stumbling to keep pace with the priest, Leonard was only half-listening. He was still bewildered, his thoughts in a whirl, his fingers hesitantly stroking the soft scarlet wool as if he expected it to be snatched from his grasp at any moment. Halting to catch his breath, he said beseechingly, “Those great lords . . . who were they, Father? Who were they?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  February 1162

  Rouen, Normandy

  HE EMPRESS MAUDE was very pleased that Henry had scheduled a Great Council to be held in late February at Rouen, for his peripatetic itinerary would have given a nomad pause. Rarely in one place for more than a few days, he was usually to be found on the roads of his vast realms, hearing petitioners and dispensing royal justice and punishing recalcitrant vassals with the same zest that he displayed in hunting for stags and wild boar. Maude cherished their infrequent reunions, and Shrove Tuesday got off to a joyful start when she learned upon awakening that her son had reached Rouen the night before.

  It had been snowing sporadically since midnight, and the priory garth was glistening in the morning sun. Maude’s spirits dimmed briefly at the sight of her horse litter. Swinging like a hammock between the shafts, the litter was a more comfortable way to travel than by cart, and although men resorted to it only if they were infirm or elderly, it was an acceptable mode of transportation for women. But to Maude, the litter was incontrovertible proof of her failing health, and she was tight-lipped as her attendants assisted her to climb inside. Was it truly more than twenty years since she’d fled the siege of Winchester, riding astride like a man with an enemy army in pursuit?

  The priory of Nôtre-Dame-du-Pré was located on the outskirts of Rouen, and the castle walls were soon in sight. In the inner bailey, servants hastily brought out a small stool for Maude’s convenience. But as she straightened up, a snowball whizzed by her head, thudding into the litter’s open door and splattering her mantle.

  There was stifled laughter from the bystanders. Maude saw no humor in it, though, and swung around to confront the culprit, only to find herself face to face with her son. “Henry!”

  Coming forward with a guilty grin, Henry gave her a quick hug. “Sorry, Mother, my aim was off.”

  “He was trying to hit me, and missed by a mile!” Eleanor sauntered up to greet her mother-in-law, laughing over Maude’s shoulder at her husband. She was flushed with the cold, her face becomingly framed in a hood of soft ermine, snow drops melting on her skin like jeweled tears. She looked astonishingly young and very beautiful and utterly alien to Maude, who could not imagine why a queen and mother would so forget her dignity by engaging in a public snowball fight with her own husband.

  “Have you both lost your senses? Surely you can find more appropriate ways to amuse yourselves,” she scolded, “than this unseemly tomfoolery!”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Henry agreed, but his grin gave him away even before he added, “Eleanor started it.”

  “Who dumped snow down whose neck? The truth, Maude, is that Harry could not resist the sight of that unsullied snow. He had to leave his footprints out in it, for all the world to see.”

  Henry laughed, then escorted Maude away from the horse litter. “Did you ever see such a splendid day, Mother? Look at the sun on the snow; it is well nigh bright enough to blind you. Let’s go into the gardens. I have something I want to discuss with you both.”

  Maude was much more susceptible now to cold than she’d been in her youth, but she was too proud to admit it. In a sense, it was rather flattering that her son seemed oblivious to the increasing frailties of age, still seeing her as the robust, resolute woman who’d known neither fear nor forgiveness, England’s uncrowned, cheated queen. The gardens were deserted, but they did have an austere beauty, the barren earth blanketed now under sparkling drifts, the bare shrubs dusted in white, holly bushes gleaming like emeralds against the snow. Escorting the women toward a bench, Henry brushed it clear, then had to blow upon his hands to warm them, for he rarely bothered with gloves.

  “I want to talk to you,” he said, “about finding a new Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  Maude refrained from pointing out that it was about time; the See of Canterbury had been vacant for the past ten months. “As I’ve told you,” she said, “you could do no better than the Bishop of Hereford. Gilbert Foliot would be a fine choice, erudite and intelligent and ascetic, as befitting a man of God.”

  “I considered Foliot, but I have a better candidate.”

  “Surely not the Bishop of Winchester? I know he is one of England’s senior churchmen, Henry, but the man could teach Judas about betrayal!”

  “Do you truly think I’d so honor Stephen’s brother? No, Mother, I have someone else in mind, an astute administrator who is both shrewd and subtle and utterly trustworthy.”

  Eleanor’s smile was faintly skeptical. “Do not keep us in suspense, Harry. Who is this unlikely paragon of virtue and efficiency?”

  “Thomas Becket.”

  Both women stared at him “Is this one of your jests, Henry?” Maude sounded uncertain, for his humor had always eluded her. But Eleanor read him better than his mother did, and she’d stiffened, her eyes riveted upon his face.

  “No, it is not a jest,” he said, somewhat impatiently, for this was not the response he’d expected. “I am quite serious. As my chancellor, Thomas has proven his worth more times than I could begin to count. He is clever, loyal, and occasionally crafty. Why would he not make a superior archbishop?”

  “Possibly because he is not even a priest.” As soon as Eleanor heard herself, she knew
she’d struck the wrong note. Sarcasm would only put her husband on the defensive. But she’d been taken by surprise, and was vexed that she’d not seen this coming. For the idea did make a certain skewed sense. Harry and Becket had worked well in tandem for the past seven years. The inevitable clashes between the Church and Crown would be much easier to resolve if England’s king and England’s archbishop were in rare accord and of one mind—Harry’s mind.

  Almost as if guessing her thoughts, Henry said, “I am not seeking a puppet. Canterbury’s Holy See cannot be governed by a man without stature or integrity. Thomas has both, and more innate ability and common sense than any bishop in Christendom. If it is just a matter of taking vows, that is remedied easily enough.”

  “I think not,” Maude said gravely. As a young boy, Henry had thought she’d sounded verily like God at such moments, blessed with the divine certainty unknown to mere mortals and impossible to argue with. But that awed child was now a man in his twenty-ninth year, and Henry reacted with annoyance, not intimidation.

  “Why not, Mother?”

  “Thomas Becket can indeed take holy vows, as you say. Nor would I deny that he has been endowed by Our Creator with great gifts. But I do not believe he has a prelate’s temperament. He is a worldly man, urbane and pleasure-loving. He has a liking for fine wines and good food, for hunting and hawking, for well-bred horses and furred mantles and silken tunics. And as Archdeacon of Canterbury, he has neglected his spiritual duties shamefully. Keep him as your chancellor, Henry, for he is well suited to that role.”

  “Are you saying there have never been luxury-loving prelates? Remind my mother, Eleanor, about the French king’s most revered adviser. When did Abbot Suger ever deprive himself of a soft feather bed or a roasted partridge?”

  “The good abbot did have a liking for his comforts,” Eleanor conceded reluctantly. She was not happy with the direction the conversation had taken, for she did not share Maude’s qualms about Becket’s high living. Her objections to the man were more visceral and less easily articulated. She neither liked nor trusted him and begrudged his role as her husband’s most trusted confidant. Taking another tack, she said, “I do not understand, Harry, why you are so willing to dispense with Becket’s services. Where will you find another chancellor of his capabilities?”