For the Love of God

by Michelle Sagara

  Thomas feels his throat tighten; he has no heart for Henry’s news. But he knows what it will be. To stave it off for a few minutes longer, he offers his monarch some wine. They are alone in the room; not even a servant remains to pour it.

  Henry takes the cup firmly in hand, and smiles at his nervous chancellor.

  “Henry,” Thomas says, still looking away—this time at the inlaid surface of his fine study table, “I know what you come for. Do not ask this of me.”

  Henry shifts position, and after a moment takes one of the large empty chairs that grace Thomas’s library. “I’ve no choice. The Church, as you know, has troubled us much; Stephen was too weak to handle it properly. You have served me well, Thomas; continue to serve me. I have already nominated you to the archbishopric of Canterbury; the royal letters have been sent, summoning the bishops.” He sets the drink aside, as he does when he speaks in earnest. “Thomas, I command you. Look at me.”

  Thomas does.

  Henry starts in his chair. “In the name of God, Thomas.” His voice is a whisper; he stares at his chancellor as if he has never seen his face before. They study each other, the monarch and his servant, as if already sundered. Then Henry’s lips lift in a self-deprecating smile; the moment is lost. “Thomas, you will be archbishop. I need you.”

  “Do not ask this of me, my lord. I will serve you faithfully, loyally, as chancellor. But this other office—it is not for me. Please.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Thomas has never been able to say no to Henry; not even in this. But they argue for another two hours before he at last acquiesces. And when Henry finally leaves, Thomas prays to a God that he knows will not listen.

  Only upon June the 3rd, in the year of 1162, do the prayers die.

  Thomas has been consecrated to God; the keys of the heavenly kingdom are in his hand. He takes his vows at an altar he can barely see through his tears; he hears the strain of the choir at his back; sees the proud face of the man who will never again be his master.

  You shall not bow down to them or serve them; for I the Lord your God am a jealous God.

  “Come, Thomas; the orders of battle will be given within the hour.”

  There is no way to escape those words; only God himself has a greater power or a greater authority. Thomas, retrieving the bible, takes to his feet. Waiting, with attendant cardinals and priests, stands Alexander. The pope; the very voice of God. Alexander was, in youth, a handsome man; he has lost that bloom, but he has gained a measure of power that only experience grants. This he wields with great cunning; it has served him well in the past, and serves him well now, although the antipope, and the schismatics of the German Empire, have been laid to rest for almost a decade.

  Thomas bows low before Alexander, taking and kissing the signatory ring upon his finger. Alexander gives him the words of blessing and bids him rise.

  “You proved true to the honor of God,” Alexander says. “And on this day, the fruit of that struggle will be made known. Come; the blessing of the battle is yours to give, as my legate.”

  “The honor,” Thomas says, in a perfectly composed voice, “is yours, holiness. When I escaped England, you granted me sanctuary in my exile, and upheld my case against the English bishops.”

  “Yet the perfidy of this king would never have been so clear without your grace. Come, Thomas. I insist.”

  John of Salisbury and Herbert of Bosham come to take their place at Thomas’s right and left hand, urging him onward in genuine pride. Thomas cannot argue with the pope. Very quietly, he makes his way down the slope of the grassy knoll, towards the pavilions meant for royalty.

  But there is only one monarch for Thomas. Why is the sun so bright?

  He does not want to remember when it first started to go wrong; but although surrounded, Thomas is always alone, and memories plague him.

  He goes to Henry; it is dark, he is alone.

  “Thomas?”

  Thomas longs to laugh or smile; to join his former king at the tables. He does neither. “Your majesty.” Stiffly said.

  “Have you come about the coronation of Prince Henry?”

  “No.” Thomas takes a step into the small room. “I have come to resign my position as royal chancellor.” Each word is hard and cold; Thomas can barely speak at all.

  “W-what?”

  It is the only time, in their long years of friendship, that Thomas has ever managed to surprise his friend. “I can no longer continue in that post, your majesty.” He kneels; his voice drops. “No man can serve two masters.”

  Does Henry hear the break in the words? Does he ever realize what it costs to say them? Thomas looks up, and sees in Henry’s face a sudden, bleak loneliness. Bitterly, the king of all England says, “You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be hungry.”

  “No,” Thomas whispers softly, meeting his lord’s eyes fully for perhaps the last time. “And I will never be free of hunger again.” He loves this man, and he cannot love him. The price would be too high. “I will retire all offices and lands that were granted to me during my tenure as chancellor, majesty.”

  Henry’s face stiffens; they speak business, like any two men who are powerful and solitary.

  He knows Henry’s pride and Henry’s temper. He knows Henry’s passions and pleasures, and knows his dealings with traitors. He has been hurt, and even angered, by the Angevin monarch. But that part of him that knows this pain belongs more properly to another life.

  He has never been able to escape its web.

  It was hardest to make that first break; he hoped it would end with that. It did not. Henry in anger was his finest enemy, and God’s worthiest foe. Ashamed at even the thought, Thomas bows his head, and silently pleads for forgiveness. Divine Grace.

  Ah, there. Eleanor has risen to greet him. He is hardly aware of the ground that has passed beneath his feet.

  “Thomas,” the Queen of England says. “You look well.”

  “And you, most gracious majesty.” He bows in response to her curtsy, feeling her eyes upon him.

  “Will God smile upon our undertakings this day?”

  “If that is His will.” He has never liked Eleanor, and in her icy eyes he sees the predator and the mother combined. She has never loved Henry, he thinks. Or perhaps, just as he, she did not love him wisely. He shakes his head.

  Louis comes forward then. Louis, the king of all France. “Will you inspect our troops?”

  The pope nods, and after a moment, Thomas also gives his assent.

  “Holiness,” The king of France says, and suddenly kneels in the sight of noble witnesses, “after this day, your exile is ended; you will return to your see with the blessings of God. The Archbishop,” he cries, raising his voice as he stands, “will return to Canterbury!”

  There is cheering.

  Thomas has no stomach for battle, anymore. Only in the shadow of Henry’s glory did battle have any romance, any meaning. He has spent these six years and more attempting to avoid this war, this place. He has written to Henry, as Archbishop, as papal legate, and as former friend. He has pleaded, cajoled, even threatened. Henry will not be moved. He must see the Church in its proper place—subordinate to the king of England.

  And Thomas must see the Church beholden to none.

  He knows that Louis will gain all of the territories of France—and Normandy, that Henry holds now. Knows that Eleanor will keep for herself the Aquitaine, and for her son, England. He knows that the pope will declare this an act of the glory of God, and take from this battle an example and a heightening of prestige.

  Men stand, in row upon shining row. Archers wait behind, and to the side, the nobility of France is mounted. Their huge horses are restive; they snap and bridle at each other as the cavalry officers play their games for the best position.

  The army bears the standard of France, and the standard of the Holy Roman Empire. They bear the cross as well. Solemn, almost infectious in their eagerness, they wait their final orders.

  Thomas nod
s as he walks past them; they are already forgotten. There, ten feet ahead, the ground tilts upward just a little. He cannot help it; before he knows it, he stands upon the gentle slope, looking down the valley.

  Flying in the wind, and in the face of the pope and the king of France to whom he owes a nominal allegiance, the Angevin standard can barely be seen. Thomas searches for Henry, for a glimpse of Henry.

  Then, unrewarded, he turns away. The business of God is at hand.

  He has always feared God, but he has served what he has feared for so long now, he does not imagine he could live without that fear. Everything that he gave to Henry, he gives to God.

  Even this gathering of the united duchies and baronies of France, alongside the papal delegation, is his work. It is Thomas who knew how best to approach Eleanor; Thomas who knew when the timing was right to seek the aid of the king of France. And it is Thomas who knew best the mind of Henry, and knew how to take advantage of the weaknesses in his strategies.

  All of this, he has done for God.

  The sun is upon the tufts of the eastern trees; the time has come. Thomas opens his holy book and begins to read in the presence of his allies. Then he stops as he sees the passage the book has opened to. It was not the one he selected.

  It is Genesis.

  His eyes cloud; it must be age. He looks up, and curses the sun quietly. There should be storms, he thinks; gouts of fire, earthquakes—some natural sign to bear God’s witness to the bitter events of the day. Clear and cold, the sky gazes down upon him, an unlidded, inescapable eye.

  Thomas struggles with the bible, and in the end it is John of Salisbury who opens it to its marked place, and holds it aloft so that Thomas might read it without shaking the holy words.

  God, Thomas whispers, as his eyes blur, do you not yet know that I fear you? I have withheld nothing. Have I not yet passed your testing? Give me a sign, Lord. Give me your blessing.

  But although he listens, heart and breath suspended, God speaks no words to him; God does not grant him Abraham’s peace.

  He has always loved Henry.

  Crying now, his voice so weak it is barely audible, Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury and Holy Legate of the Apostolistic see, gives his blessing to the battle.

  Short Stories by Michelle West and Michelle Sagara

  The first six stories released are connected to the Essalieyan Universe of the novels I write for DAW as Michelle West. Since those are my most asked-for short stories, those are the ones I wanted to make available first. The rest of the stories will be released in chronological order from the date of their first appearance, which are listed in brackets beside the titles, along with the anthology in which they first appeared. All of the stories have introductions (which will probably come through in the samples if you’ve already read the stories but want to read those.)

  In the Essalieyan universe:

  Echoes (2001, Assassin Fantastic)

  Huntbrother (2004, Sirius, the Dog Star)

  The Black Ospreys (2005, Women of War)

  The Weapon (2005, Shadow of Evil)

  Warlord (1998, Battle Magic)

  The Memory of Stone (2002, 30th Anniversary DAW Fantasy)

  ------

  Birthnight (1992, Christmas Bestiary)

  Gifted (1992, Aladdin, Master of the Lamp)

  Shadow of a Change (1993, Dinosaur Fantastic)

  For The Love of God (1993, Alternate Warriors)

  Hunger (1993, Christmas Ghosts)

  Four Attempts at a Letter (1994, By Any Other Fame)

  Winter (1994, Deals with the Devil)

  What She Won’t Remember (1994, Alternate Outlaws)

  The Hidden Grove (1995, Witch Fantastic)

  Ghostwood (1995, Enchanted Forests)

  When a Child Cries (1996, Phantoms of the Night)

  The Sword in the Stone (1997, Alternate Tyrants)

  Choice* (1997, Sword of Ice: Friends of Valdemar)

  Turn of the Card (1997, Tarot Fantastic)

  The Law of Man (1997, Elf Fantastic)

  Flight (1997, Return of the Dinosaurs)

  The Vision of Men (1997, The Fortune Teller)

  By the Work, One Knows (1997, Zodiac Fantastic)

  Under the Skin (1997, Elf Magic)

  The Dead that Sow (1997, Wizard Fantastic)

  Kin (1998, Olympus)

  Step on the Crack (1998, Black Cats and Broken Mirrors)

  Diamonds (1998, Alien Pets)

  Sunrise (1999, A Dangerous Magic)

  Elegy (1999, Moon Shots)

  Return of the King (1999, Merlin)

  Work in Progress (1999, Alien Abductions)

  Water Baby (1999, Earth, Air, Fire and Water)

  Faces Made of Clay (2000, Mardi Gras Madness)

  Sacrifice (2000, Spell Fantastic)

  Shelter (2000, Perchance to Dream)

  Pas de Deux (2000, Guardian Angels)

  Déjà Vu (2001, Single White Vampire Seeks Same)

  To Speak With Angels (2001, Villains Victorious)

  Lady of the Lake (2001, Out of Avalon)

  Truth (2001, The Mutant Files)

  The Last Flight (2001, Creature Fantastic)

  The Knight of the Hydan Athe (2002, Knight Fantastic)

  Legacy (2002, Familiars)

  The Nightingale (2002, Once Upon a Galaxy)

  A Quiet Justice (2002, Vengeance Fantastic)

  The Augustine Painters (2002, Apprentice Fantastic)

  How to Kill an Immortal (2002, The Bakka Anthology)

  Fat Girl (2002, Oceans of the Mind VI, ezine)

  Winter Death* (2003, The Sun in Glory: Friends of Valdemar)

  Diary (2003, The Sorcerer’s Academy)

  Dime Store Rings (2004, The Magic Shop)

  To The Gods Their Due (2004, Conqueror Fantastic)

  The Stolen Child (2004, Faerie Tales)

  The Rose Garden (2004, Little Red Riding Hood in the Big Bad City)

  The Colors of Augustine (2004, Summoned to Destiny)

  Unicorn Hunt (2005, Maiden, Mother Crone)

  The Snow Queen (2005, Magic Tails; with Debbie Ohi)

  Shahira (2006, Children of Magic)

  *Set in Mercedes Lackey’s Valdemar, as the anthology titles suggest

  For more information—or just to say hello!—I can be found online at:

  Twitter: @msagara

  Facebook: Michelle Sagara

  My blog about my written works: Michelle West & Michelle Sagara