The Lions' Torment

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  When they emerged from the mystery of the green world into agricultural land around towns and villages, Henry dispensed judgements, while Eleanor made donations to religious houses and restored shrines. Both received the homage of vassals. In places where game was plentiful and visible, they hunted.

  One night as they returned north, he said to her, ‘Everything I planned for our dynasty in England is falling apart, thanks to the vile Archbishop. But I’m happy. It’s your presence beside me.’

  The year was growing old. They lay together at a time when night fell early. Torches around the walls had been lit so they could see their way about in the bedchamber. Eleanor squinted slightly as she looked into Henry’s eyes. Her gaze, he noted, had become more penetrating and wise. She was forty years old, but as agile as a girl of twenty.

  ‘A woman’s heart is deep, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘And of all your sex, I believe yours to be the deepest.’

  She acknowledged the compliment with serenity. ‘We have healthy children, we have enormous territory, we ourselves are in excellent health, our vassals are obedient, this year’s harvest has been good everywhere …’

  ‘There’s something you’re not saying, cousin.’

  Her gaze withdrew. Her expression of ease and pleasure shut down. He thought she would refuse to answer. At length she said, ‘In prayer I had a vision about the Archbishop. An angel whispered that because Bec has cursed William and Isabel’s love, he himself is now cursed.’

  Her husband took her in his arms with passion.

  They remained in their continental domains, making a small Christmas court in the town of Cherbourg, which overlooked the wild sea below, its grey waters tossed with gales. Eleanor was not with child. ‘Too much travelling,’ she said. ‘Too much riding and hunting. Too many nights spent in tents.’

  In late January they sailed for England. Henry said to his wife, ‘Now that I return, the scoundrel must prepare himself to do what he promised me: reform the crimes of the Church.’

  Eleanor’s reply was grave. ‘He must reform himself first. I doubt that’s possible without the intervention of our Saviour.’

  William, still ignorant of the ban on his marriage, was also on the royal ship. Henry said, ‘Brother, custom demands Bec comes to greet us when we disembark. Don’t approach him. Don’t speak to him.’

  ‘Suits me. But I’d like to kiss my nephew.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see.’

  At Southampton, a huge crowd of magnates, barons, court officials and ambassadors wearing their most impressive winter cloaks waited to welcome the monarchs home. Behind them stood the common people, nudging each other, craning their necks, discussing in a local dialect the clothes and appearance of this lord or that lady. In front of all stood the Archbishop, an image of majesty. He appeared to have grown in height. The southerly that had made the crossing swift billowed his red silk and velvet cloak to reveal, hiding beneath it, the Crown Prince.

  Henry disembarked with Eleanor on his arm. He beamed with joviality, with his free hand waving to barons, baronesses and bishops in the crowd. He remembered the names of hundreds of his subjects, men and women glowing with pride as he called out to them. Abruptly a baron from Devizes strode forward a few paces. As youths he and Henry had fought side by side in the civil war. He had a voice strong enough to outshout the wind. He cried, ‘Our king, England’s heart and soul, the magic glass in which we see the most ideal image of ourselves, the mighty Henry, who holds first place in the thoughts of his subjects. Welcome home, Lord King!’ The crowd cheered itself hoarse.

  At last Henry turned his swelling chest to the Archbishop. ‘Both of you!’ he exclaimed as he embraced Becket. ‘Come to Papa, son.’ The child cringed against his foster father’s leg.

  Eleanor muttered in langue d’oc, ‘This is outrageous.’ She smiled at her boy, but still he clung to Becket, whom she turned to address. ‘It appears, Your Grace, that our son no longer recognises his true parents.’

  ‘Darling boy, go and kiss your mama and papa.’

  The child ventured timidly towards the Queen, to whom he offered his cheek. When he looked up at his father, however, the King’s displeasure was stamped so strongly on his features that the Prince backed away and in a moment was once more hiding inside the Archbishop’s cloak.

  Smiling, Henry turned to his wife. ‘What an inspiring foster father our son has,’ he said in English. ‘Look how the boy trusts him with the faith of a monk trusting the Virgin’s protection.’ Still smiling, he added in langue d’oc, ‘We’ll remove him as soon as possible.’

  Eleanor nodded and laughed. In English she said, ‘Our boy will arrive at his years of serious study with a mind already stimulated by the splendours of a great household.’

  Becket bowed. He offered his arm to Henry, who gave his wife a loving glance and moved away. The crowd parted, many still grinning with excitement. You paid that from Devizes, baron, Becket thought. Beyond them, stallions waited, caparisoned against the cold. They mounted and trotted off together.

  Henry said, ‘Bec, I—’

  ‘Please don’t address me as Bec.’

  The King’s expression remained unchanged. ‘Bec, as you’re aware, Bishop Foliot is most displeased with your elevation to a post he considers should be his. May I suggest we show a spirit of harmony between Crown and Church by a joint petition to His Holiness asking that Foliot be promoted to Bishop of London?’

  ‘Oh! I hardly expected … But of course, Henry—’ ‘Highness.’

  ‘Highness. Of course. An excellent idea.’

  ‘I’ve had another one.’ Henry grinned. He watched Becket closely. The Archbishop’s breathing quickened, an extra tinge of pink creeping up his neck.

  ‘All your ideas are excellent. Highness.’

  ‘Since you’re no longer Chancellor, I’ve decided that you should no longer be Archdeacon either. As is well known, it’s a post open to the temptation of bribes and corruption. What’s the saying in monasteries? “Can an archdeacon be saved?”’ Becket turned red. The monarch continued, ‘It’s said, “They love luxury, they sell favours, a host is not safe in his own house when an archdeacon enters.” Now, Tom, I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s important you’re seen to be as pure as fresh snow. You’ve shown you no longer wish the temptations of being Chancellor to taint your reputation – and there are many temptations for a Chancellor, however honest a man he is. I deem it important that you now extend your virtuous attitude by renouncing your post as Archdeacon.’

  His companion was speechless before blurting, ‘You can’t! You can’t force me out of it.’

  ‘Of course I can,’ Henry replied amiably. ‘It’s not a clerical position. An archdeacon takes no vows. You informed me of that when I was nine years old as you took me to see a cage of monkeys. I said that clergy were forbidden to keep wild animals. You replied that you were not clergy.’ Becket’s chest heaved. ‘By the way, Bec, how much do you take annually as Archdeacon?’

  ‘My salary is seventy pounds.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. I meant the money people give you to avoid prosecution, for example. Or to keep land to which they are not entitled.’

  ‘I find your questions offensive. Highness.’

  ‘You’re easily offended, Tom. Once you’re rid of the post, there’ll be much less cause for distress from cruel tongues. I’m thinking of the forty letters I’ve received, letters from the baronage streaming to me across the Narrow Sea, complaining that you’ve demanded from them land you consider belongs to the Church. These people gossip, Tom. They blacken your name. As your sponsor, their accusations against you pain me. I need to help you establish your reputation for honesty by renouncing the role of Archdeacon.’ He noted that Becket’s hands were shaking.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘So you’ve already chosen someone. Highness.’

  ‘As ever, sharp as a knife.’ Henry turned his horse’s head. ‘Let’s rejoin our friends. Oh, that’s Her
bert of Bosham standing over there. I recognise him from the description of his German cloak when he turned up at Falaise as your groom. What a tall, handsome fellow! You must present him to me.’

  Herbert bowed low. ‘Sire,’ he murmured.

  The King was still mounted. ‘Now that I see your face, I remember I’ve seen it somewhere before.’

  ‘I worked in the royal chancery.’

  ‘Of course! One of my clerks. And now you’re one of His Grace’s eruditi. How many scholars have you gathered for his court?’

  ‘Thirty-seven, sire.’

  ‘A mighty number of mighty men – that’s the description I’ve heard. “The Lord Archbishop has mighty men as his assistants.”

  I’m impressed. I wish I had so many scholars to inform my mind on difficult questions of policy.’

  Herbert murmured, ‘I’m sure you do not need so many, Highness.’

  Henry chuckled. Beside him, Becket was looking furious. ‘No, I make do with the justiciars, my wife, other members of my family, my treasurer, my sheriffs. At the moment I don’t even have a Chancellor. Compared with the Lord Archbishop’s court, mine is simple. But we muddle along. Tell me, Herbert: are all the mighty men as tall and handsome as you?’

  Bosham dropped his gaze to his fine green leather boots. He had not been able to look the King in the face. He was now as red with embarrassment as His Grace was red with anger. ‘We, um … they are …’

  ‘All tall, elegant and handsome,’ Henry said. ‘That’s what I’m told. His Grace surrounds himself with beautiful young men.’ He grabbed Herbert of Bosham by the collar, pulling his head towards him. ‘And only half can be called scholars,’ he growled. ‘Many tongues say, “Not eruditi. Catamiti.” People are malicious, are they not?’

  The former chancery clerk, so tall, so broad-shouldered, so well dressed, began to shake. The throng had moved around them, curious about what was happening.

  Henry raised his voice. ‘Our Lord Archbishop is determined to reform the Church, to rid it of criminous clerks. And his main assistant, the handsome Master Bosham, has agreed to the onerous task of assisting him. Let’s applaud him.’

  He unsheathed his sword with such speed Herbert gave a small scream. ‘Here’s to Master Bosham!’ the King shouted. ‘Mighty man.’ The crowd clapped wildly.

  ‘Great to see our King with sword in hand,’ people said. The scholar had been unable to move away because the throng had wedged him against Henry’s horse.

  Henry leaned over to growl, ‘Remember this day, Master Bottom.’

  He looked up and smiled. Beyond the mass of courtiers on foot he could see William, mounted, on one side of him a veiled lady, on the other, Sir Richard. The crowd had forced the Archbishop’s horse to move to a position in which he was facing away from William and Isabel. Thank God, Henry thought. With luck no priest will whisper in her ear that her marriage is forbidden before I can think of something to change Alexander’s mind.

  He nodded to his guards. Eleanor was already on her horse. The guards led it level with the King’s. ‘Make way!’ they shouted. Two standard-bearers trotted out, the royal flags lifting in the wind. Justiciars, other royal officials and nobles hastened to mount. The crowd vanished from the roadway, broad and still paved in stone that the army of Rome had laid centuries earlier. Henry and Eleanor kicked their horses into a fast trot and were off, their lavishly dressed retinue streaming after them.

  At the roadside common people stood waving. ‘Henry!’ they yelled. ‘Welcome home, Henry! Welcome home, our Queen.’

  ‘We’ve missed you, darlings!’ he shouted back. Again and again he called to his subjects, in English and in the dialect of the south.

  Becket muttered to Herbert, ‘Disgusting! He just forbade me to call him by his Christian name, but he welcomes it from swineherds.’

  ‘He’s a swine himself.’

  Becket pursed his lips. ‘I have the pallium. I am the representative of the Pope in England, as the Holy Father is God’s representative on earth. We shall overcome, Herbie. We shall overcome.’

  When the party arrived at Winchester Palace, there was a welcome feast, after which Henry announced a meeting of the Royal Council for the following week. The Archbishop sent a note regretting he would be unable to attend, due to urgent business in Canterbury. ‘He does not ask my permission,’ Henry remarked to Robert de Beaumont.

  King and Earl withdrew to a small unadorned chamber, hot from a fire and rather airless. It was designed for secret conversations on matters of state. Churls had to wait outside its oak doors until the monarch himself appeared to fetch them.

  The moment they were seated, Henry said, ‘I’ve blundered.’

  The old aristocrat’s eyes glazed with tears. ‘You have blundered, my dear. We’re at our wits’ end. With the exception of Henry Blois and a couple of men consecrated as soon as he got the pallium, every bishop already hates him. The Canterbury monks loathe him. He won’t even change his dress to conform to clerical modesty. All summer he was dressed in pink, blue and mauve. It was a scandal. Not among junior clergy and the common people, of course, who love gaping at colourful clothes. His banquets are seen as outrageous among the senior clergy. Neither Theobald nor Anselm before him ever served game, but he presents whole boars and all kinds of venison, pheasants and chickens, and only the finest wines. Your own son leads the noble boys who serve him. He has those wretched eruditi seated on his right hand, with monks on his left. Magnates and knights are placed at separate tables. I myself was seated at a layman’s table. We were served last, and forbidden to speak for an interminable time while a monk read passages from Holy Scripture for the edification of our Archbishop.’

  Henry dropped his head in his hands. ‘I heard much of this from letters while I was away, but suspected it as exaggeration.’

  Beaumont shook his head. His voice became lower and lower. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when England’s propriety was so abused.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Robert. I’ve made an unforgivable error. He’ll either reform himself, or he’ll be removed.’ The King laid his hand on his heart. ‘Honour demands I find a way to undo this harm to the realm. If I have to go begging to Alexander, I will. If I have to switch my allegiance to Barbarossa’s anti-pope, I will. I am England’s King. I am her servant.’

  The justiciar bowed his head to wipe tears from his eyes. ‘My dear Henry, in England there’s no legal instrument for removing an archbishop.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Earl Robert de Beaumont was a man of deep loyalty to the Crown and the Church in equal measure. Possessing every earthly good, including a steady, well-educated mind, he desired only to serve his monarch, his country and his Saviour. He had worked for King Stephen with the same impartiality of advice as he exercised for Stephen’s enemy and conqueror, the rebel leader, Henry Plantagenet. During the Lenten fast that stretched from February into March that year, it was he who persuaded the King to deal gently with the new Archbishop, to allow him to accustom himself to the position of High Priest. ‘He’s never been more than a royal handmaiden, my dear. He’s unused to the restraints of leadership.’

  ‘He believes he can trample them,’ Henry muttered.

  ‘True. But he’s a commoner and brings the attitudes of a commoner to his role. Give him time to learn.’

  ‘I hear he’s in a rage that I appointed our new Chancellor, Geoffrey Riddel, as Archdeacon. He and his band of so-called scholars refer to Geoffrey as “Archdiabolos”. Bec lost the chance for accumulating gold that most archdeacons crave. We both know Riddel is beyond corruption.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed. But the great moment of Easter approaches, Henry. It’s Becket’s first Easter as a priest. Let us pray that its mystery transforms him, that the hours he must spend in contemplation of the torment of our Lord and his forgiveness of the torturers transforms his heart from worldliness to compassion. Every man can be saved.’

  Beaumont paused, his shrewd old eyes darting a look at the mon
arch. The court had moved from Winchester to Westminster. ‘I’m not so ancient I can’t amble along on a comfortable horse for a couple of days. Why don’t you and I ride together to Canterbury on Palm Sunday as a display of royal goodwill? The Count of Flanders will arrive during Holy Week to confirm the treaty of our alliance for friendship and trade already signed by your lovely wife. You and Bec could ride from Canterbury to Dover to welcome him. The common people would love the spectacle of their King and their new Archbishop together like brothers, as in days gone by. The Church would welcome a show of accord. Bishops would see it as Bec learning how to conform, now that you’re home. It’s essential, my dear, that the two swords move in harmony.’

  ‘Your advice is impeccable. Eleanor should accompany us. I know she’s eager to see her son.’

  ‘Her presence will make a pageant! What about your brother, Viscount William? That long golden hair of his. I have heard ladies cry with delight. England should see more of him.’

  ‘Willi is preparing for my attack on Rhys of Deheubarth.’

  ‘And visiting the Countess of Surrey?’

  ‘Possibly. I can’t understand how Rhys seized the castle of Llandovery last year. Was our garrison drunk?’

  ‘You know the Welsh. Military enterprise is applauded in their songs and poetry. Every Welshman wants to be a hero.’

  Henry snorted. ‘Maybe I should ask the monks of Canterbury to sing for my success against Rhys.’

  Their conversation moved on to policy regarding Wales. ‘I’m confident I can defeat the southern prince. The problem is, what to do with him afterwards? And how do I deal with the King of Scotland, who’s promoting foreign alliances? He’s married one sister to the Duke of Brittany and another to the Count of Holland. Both men are treacherous at best.’ Although he would not admit it to Beaumont, Henry felt rueful that Douglas the merlin, his protector when he was a youth, had withdrawn from him.

  On Palm Sunday, the arrival of the monarchs at Canterbury drew the largest crowd ever seen. Bells rang so loudly that people jamming the streets around the churches had to yell to hear each other.