by Jean Plaidy
With everyone else Rosamund had shuddered at the news of Becket’s murder. She knew how deeply the King had been involved with the man. Many were the times when he had come to her distraught, angry, sad – and all because of Thomas à Becket. He had talked to her often as though he were talking to himself … he would ramble on sometimes about the great friendship they had shared and at others the hundred ways Thomas had found to plague him. Once he had said: ‘There’ll be no peace for me while Thomas à Becket is Archbishop of Canterbury. I would to God I were rid of the man.’
When she had heard that Thomas had been killed she could not get those words out of her mind. And she kept seeing Henry on those occasions when he had given vent to his rage against the Archbishop. Then he had frightened her with the violence of his fury and only her loving solicitude had prevented his giving way to it. She soothed him at such times by agreeing with him, offering him sympathy, making him realise that whatever he said, whatever he did, she believed him to be right.
And now … Becket.
She could not stop thinking of him. She had heard what had happened at the Cathedral after the death. How pilgrims were already visiting the place, the sick and maimed. They believed that if they kissed the stones on which his blood had been shed they would be blessed and perhaps cured of their sins.
For once she could not say to herself or to the King: You were right in what you did.
Thomas à Becket was between them.
He sensed the change in her. It frustrated him, put a barrier between them. She smiled and was as gracious and loving as ever; he was as ardent; but something had changed in their relationship and they were both aware of it.
There was not the same comfort with Rosamund as there had been.
In the palace at Westminster he visited the nursery. There were only the two youngest of his children there at this time – Joanna in her seventh year and John in his sixth. The fact that he had just made a marriage contract for his youngest son had awakened his interest in him and he wanted to tell the little fellow about his good fortune.
When he strode into the nursery a hushed awe fell upon the place; the nurses and attendants curtsied to the floor and the children watched in wonder. Henry cast a quick glance over the females – a habit which never left him – to see if any of them were worthy of his passing attention; and perhaps because his mind was busy with the change in Rosamund, or perhaps because he was not greatly impressed by any of them, he dismissed them.
The children were looking at a picture book and with them was a girl of some eleven or twelve years. They all rose. The two girls curtsied and young John bowed.
What a pleasant trio. The King felt his mood changing as he surveyed them. His son John was a pretty creature and so was his daughter. In grace and beauty though he had to admit that their companion surpassed them.
He remembered suddenly who she was. Of course she was Alice, daughter of the King of France, and she was being brought up here because she was betrothed to his son Richard.
‘I trust you are pleased to see me,’ said the King.
John smiled; Joanna looked alarmed but Alice replied: ‘It gives us great pleasure, my lord.’
He laid his hand on her soft curling hair.
‘And do you know who I am, little one?’
‘You are the King,’ she answered.
‘Our father,’ added John.
‘You are right,’ said Henry. ‘I have come to see how you are all getting on in your nursery. Come, Joanna, it is time for you to speak.’
‘We get on well, my lord,’ murmured the little girl shyly.
He picked her up and kissed her. Children were charming. Then he picked up John and did the same. When he set him down he looked at Alice. She blushed slightly. ‘And you, my lady,’ he said, ‘I must offer you like treatment, must I not?’
He lifted her in his arms. Her face was close to his. The texture of children’s skin was so fine, so soft. Even beauties like Rosamund could not compare with them. It gave him great pleasure to hold this beautiful child in his arms. He kissed her soft cheek, but he did not put her down. He went on holding her. He looked into her eyes so beautifully set. Richard, he thought, you have a prize in this one. The idea of monk-like Louis siring such a perfect little creature amused him.
John and Joanna were looking up at him. He held Alice against him and kissed her again, this time on the mouth.
‘You kiss Alice more than you kiss us,’ said John.
Henry put the girl down. ‘Well, she is our guest so we must make sure she knows she is welcome.’
‘Is Alice our guest then?’ asked John. ‘They say she is our sister.’
‘She is to be your sister and she is our guest.’ He took one of her ringlets and curled it round his finger. ‘And I want her to know that there was never a more welcome one in my kingdom. What say you to that, little Alice?’
She said: ‘My lord is good.’
He knelt down, feigning to hear her better, but in fact to put his face closer to her own.
‘I like you well,’ he said; and he patted her face and his hands went to her shoulders and moved over her childish unformed body.
He stood up.
‘Now I will sit down and you shall tell me how you progress in your lessons.’ He looked at John whose expression had become a little woebegone.
‘Well, well, my son,’ he said, for his spirits were higher than they had been since he had heard of Becket’s death, ‘we’ll not go too far into the subject if it is not a pleasant one, for this is an occasion for rejoicing.’
He took Alice’s hand in one of his and Joanna’s in the other and led the way to the window. He seated himself there. John leaned against one knee and Joanna against the other. ‘Come, Alice, my dear child,’ he said, and drawing her between his knees held her close to him. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we are a friendly party. John, my son, I have come to see you because I have some good news for you.’
‘For me, my lord,’ cried John starting to leap up and down.
‘You must not do that,’ said Joanna.
‘Oh, we will let him express a little joy, daughter,’ said the King, ‘for it is a most joyful matter. I have a bride for him.’
‘A bride,’ said John. ‘What is that?’
‘He is too young to understand,’ said Alice.
‘Of course,’ said the King tenderly stroking her arm. ‘But you are not, my little one. You have been betrothed have you not … to my son Richard?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Alice.
‘You are too young as yet to go to him,’ went on the King and was amazed at the relief he felt. It would be unendurable to allow this beautiful child to go to some bumbling boy. Richard of course was handsome, but he was too young yet.
‘It will be soon though,’ said Alice.
‘No,’ said the King firmly. ‘There is some time yet.’
‘What about me?’ said John.
‘Listen to our young bridegroom. Joanna, Alice, my dears, listen to him!’
‘You said it was my bride, Father.’
‘So it is, my son. I have found you a bride who will bring much good to you and us, and her father and I have agreed that when you are old enough you shall be married. Her name is … why, she has the prettiest name in the world. What do you think it is? Alice! The same as my dear daughter here. Alice, I have already grown to love that name.’
She smiled delightedly. A little dimple appeared in her cheek when she did so.
‘You are a dear child,’ he said, ‘and I love you.’ He held her tightly against him and kissed her warmly on the cheek.
John was asking impatient questions. How big was his bride? Could she play games? Was she pretty? Was she good at her lessons?
‘She is all these things,’ said the King, ‘and she is very happy to be my daughter and your wife.’
John laughed delightedly. He was a charming little fellow, his youngest son. The others had always resented him in some way. That was their mother’s influ
ence, he was sure. It was very different in the nursery now. He must visit it more often.
Of course his illegitimate son Geoffrey was no longer there. He was being tutored in knighthood. A fine boy, Geoffrey. He had always preferred him to Eleanor’s brood. But his son Henry was so handsome that he would have liked there to be a closer bond between them. As for Richard he was so much his mother’s boy that it seemed they could never feel anything but enmity for each other.
John was different – the youngest child whose love for his father had never been tainted by his mother’s venom.
From now on John would be a favourite of his. He would visit the nursery frequently, and it would not be a duty but a real pleasure. The main reason was that enchanting little creature Alice. A little beauty in the making if he knew anything and from the experience he had had he should know a good deal.
Dear sweet creature, what good she had done him. She had stopped him thinking of the changed attitude of Rosamund and chief of all the murder of Thomas à Becket.
He would be ready to sail for Ireland in August. So far he had kept the papal legates at bay. They would not let the matter rest there, he knew. What would they want of him? Some sort of penance he supposed and if he refused to make it – excommunication. It was not good for a King to suffer that. His subjects were superstitious and if they feared that the hand of God was against him they would turn from him and even those who remained loyal would lose heart. He believed that when men went into battle they must be well equipped for the fight, not only materially but spiritually. They must believe in victory if they were to achieve it. This had been one of the firm beliefs of his great-grandfather, William the Conqueror, who insisted on seeing good in omens when other men feared they might be evil. I only believe in omens when they are good ones, his grandfather, Henry I, had said; and he had proved himself to be one of the most astute rulers ever known.
Therefore he wanted no excommunication. But time was a good ally. The longer the delay between the murder and the bringing home of the guilt the better. Passions cooled and as long as there were not too many miracles at the shrine of Canterbury, he could weather this storm as he had so many others.
Ireland now faced him.
He was on his way to Portsmouth when news came to him that the old Bishop of Winchester was sick and thought to be dying, and was asking to see the King.
There was nothing Henry could do but visit the old man; one did not refuse a dying request.
Poor old man! He was indeed in his last extremities. No doubt he was ready to go, for he had been blind for a long time.
He was the brother of Stephen who had usurped the throne which should by rights have belonged to Henry’s mother, Matilda; and the Bishop of Winchester had been one of his – brother’s main props, although there had been a time when he had been so exasperated by Stephen’s folly that he had been almost ready to turn to Matilda. That was long ago and wrong had been righted for he, Henry Plantagenet, grandson of King Henry I, was King of England.
He found the Bishop very close to death but he seemed to revive a little when he realised the King had come.
‘My lord King is good to answer my last request.’
‘My dear Bishop, much as I dislike requests from my clergy, I hope it will not be the last from you.’
‘Ah, you see me, my lord, both frail and full of years, and you can have no doubt – as I have none – that my time is come.’
‘May God bless your soul, Bishop.’
‘And yours, my lord. You will know why I wished to see you, why I wished to speak with you before I left this earth for ever. I fear for you, my lord.’
‘Be of good cheer. I have taken care of myself and my kingdom for many years. Fear not, I shall go on doing so whatever befalls.’
‘It is what may befall, my lord, which makes me fearful.’
‘Have you brought me here to utter gloomy prophecies, Bishop?’
‘My lord, you know I refer to the murder.’
‘Few refer to anything else now. I am a little weary of the subject.’
‘You must be very sick at heart, my lord.’
‘The Archbishop is dead. Nothing can bring him back. When a man has a kingdom to govern he cannot indulge in prolonged mourning because a subject is no more.’
‘Thomas was no ordinary subject.’
‘Archbishop of Canterbury no less, though for some years he preferred to forget it.’
‘You cannot deceive a dying man, my lord. You are sick at heart and fearful of consequences.’
‘Why should I be, pray?’
‘Because, my lord, you are guilty of murder and that the murder of a saint.’
‘My lord Bishop, you forget to whom you speak.’
‘I’m dying, my lord. Nothing you could do to me now could harm me. I will speak the truth in death.’
‘Is it not a cowardly thing to do – to say in death that which you feared to say in life?’
‘I would say it if I had ten years more left to me. I tremble for you, for you have murdered a saint.’
‘My lord Bishop,’ said the King affecting weariness, ‘my knights misunderstood me. I raged against the man. Who would not? He plagued me. He frustrated me at every turn. I forgave him. I allowed him to return to England after his exile and what did he do? He tried to raise the country against me.’
‘He did no such thing. That was what his enemies said against him. He was always your friend.’
The King was silent for a few moments then he burst out: ‘I had no part in his death. I did not wish him dead.’
‘My lord,’ said the Bishop lifting his hand, ‘your knights killed the Archbishop because you had led them to believe you wished it. You cannot deny that and you are responsible for his death. I fear your expiation will be terrible.’
Hot anger seized the King. He clenched his fist and wanted to crash it into those sightless eyes. But this was a dying man and a terrible fear and remorse quickly overcame his fury. He remained still with his fist raised.
‘Repent, my lord,’ murmured the Bishop. ‘Ask God’s forgiveness for this terrible deed.’
The Bishop was suddenly still. The King called out: ‘Come hither. The Bishop is dying.’
He was glad to escape from that chamber of death. He was afraid and fear made him angry.
‘Thomas,’ he muttered, ‘are you going to haunt me for ever?’
He must escape. He must shut out of his mind memories of Thomas, memories of the dying Bishop.
Normally he would go with all speed to Rosamund; now he thought the innocence of the children in the royal nursery could appease him better.
When the kings of Ireland heard that Henry Plantagenet had landed they made haste to swear fealty to him. The chiefs and kings of such places as Waterford, Cork and Limerick were all eager to avoid a war. They trembled before the might of the King of England. They were Celts, tall and elegant men and their complexions were ruddy. Their tunics were of roughly spun wool and their weapons of war were very primitive for they had nothing but swords, short lances and hatchets. Although they were quarrelsome they often appeared to have little heart for a fight; they were passionately fond of music and many of them played the harp. Their houses were of wood and wattle; their country was green and fertile, the climate warm and damp. Henry liked what he saw of it and recalled to his followers that both his grandfather and great-grandfather had planned to conquer the place, but their commitments in England and Normandy had made it impossible for them to do so. Now he, who had ever wider territories to control, was on the point of doing so.
At Waterford he received the homage of the petty princes and arranged that they should pay him a small annual tribute as a token that they accepted him as their suzerain.
It was November by the time he came to Dublin. He took up his headquarters in the wooden palace there; and he sent his two commissioners, Roger de Lacy and William Fitzalden, to parley with Roderick, the King of Connaught, who was the chief of all the petty
princes. They met on the banks of the Shannon where Roderick made it very clear that as he considered himself the true ruler of Ireland he had no intention of abdicating in favour of Henry of England.
When Henry received the message he was furious. Everything had gone so smoothly until this time. He would have liked to go into battle immediately to show the little king that he was master, but his soldier’s eye saw at once that the mountains were too steep and the weather too wet to enable him to embark on a successful campaign. He cursed Roderick – the only one who had stood out against him – and swore that as soon as the weather changed he would be ready to make him wish he had acted differently.
Christmas came. Henry was not sorry that he must celebrate the festival in Dublin. Time was getting very near to the anniversary of Thomas’s death and he knew that in England and France people would remember. It was as well therefore to be far away at such a time.
Those of the Irish who had decided to accept him as their ruler paid great honour to him. They even built him a palace outside the walls of the city. It was constructed in a very short time and was made of wattle. Henry was very proud of it. There should be a great celebration on Christmas Day, he said, and he would invite all his new and loyal subjects to join him at his table.
Then he set his cooks to produce a magnificent meal such as would impress these people so much that they would talk about it for years to come and Roderick of Connaught would hear of the riches of the new lord of Ireland.
There was merrymaking and much laughter and Henry listened with grave appreciation to his new subjects’ songs and performances on the harp.
Shortly after the festivities he arranged that the bishops of Ireland should swear fealty to him and when this had been done he wrote to the Pope asking Alexander to accept him and his heirs as the rulers of Ireland.
All was going well with the exception of the tiresome Roderick who was constantly affirming his determination to stand against the King. Henry planned to take by force what Roderick would not give him, but the weather was still too treacherous for him to launch a campaign. The wind howled up the river; the rain fell in torrents; it was clear to the most inexperienced soldier that no campaign could be successfully carried out in such conditions.
