by Jean Plaidy
As she listened to the singing of her minstrels she ruminated that life had been interesting. Henry had disappointed her, yet oddly enough she still hankered for him. She often wondered what it was about him that attracted her so much. She so elegant; he quite the reverse. Oh, but he was a man; and his power sat naturally on him. That Angevin temper of his amused her, but her own was a match for it.
Now that she had grown accustomed to the fact that he was unfaithful to her now and then, she had enjoyed their encounters, and looked forward to them. Her only reservation was that they could result in more child-bearing. With three healthy sons she had enough, she reckoned. But she was still young enough to bear more.
She was a little jealous of the King’s Chancellor for Henry seemed to prefer his company to that of anyone else - even women’s. Becket was clever, she conceded that; and he was a good servant, so perhaps she was wrong to resent Henry’s devotion to him. A king could not have too many good servants.
She was amused to hear that Louis’s wife was pregnant once more. Good for Louis! she thought mockingly. At least he had managed to get her with child twice. She wondered if he was still rather reluctant and preferred to listen to church music instead of the music of love. Not for one moment had she regretted her escape from him.
The life of repose was not for her and whenever she was in Aquitaine she began to think of Toulouse, which had always irritated her because she believed that it should have belonged to her. She had in the past claimed that it came to her through her grandmother Philippa, and she was always hoping that she and Henry would win it back. At this time it was in the possession of Raymond the fifth Count who was a weakling, yet nothing much could be done about it because he had, very shrewdly, married the sister of the King of France.
Oh these marriages! mused Eleanor. How necessary a part of statescraft they were.
Henry came to her when she sat in the gardens with her minstrels. He clapped his hands impatiently implying that he wished them to depart. No one ignored such a signal. The King’s temper was well known and something to avoid.
Henry was clearly disturbed. He sprawled down beside Eleanor and said: ‘I have news. The Queen of France was brought to bed …’
‘A son,’ said Eleanor.
‘Nay, a daughter.’
Eleanor burst out laughing but the King said in a hushed voice: ‘The Queen of France died giving birth to the child.’
They were both silent, thinking of what this would mean. Another daughter for Louis! That was his fourth. Was it that he could not get sons? Eleanor could think complacently of her three healthy boys in the nursery. Poor Louis! What would he do now? He would have to marry again in due course.
The same thought was in Henry’s mind.
‘He’ll wait a while,’ he said, ‘and then he’ll marry. The marriage of the King of France is of the utmost importance to me.’
Henry was casting round in his mind for a wife for the King of France who would be suitable in the eyes of the King of England.
To the astonishment of all, only one month after the death of Queen Constance, Louis married Adela of Blois.
Henry and Eleanor were blank with amazement which quickly turned to apprehension.
‘So,’ cried Henry, ‘he marries Adela of Blois in most indecent haste and her brother Theobald is betrothed to Louis’s daughter. This makes a very strong alliance between the Count of Blois and the King of France.’
‘Too strong,’ said Eleanor.
‘I like it not,’ grumbled Henry. ‘Forget not that the last King of England came from the house of Blois. I like not to see that house too powerful.’
‘You are thinking that they might bring out a claim to the throne of England?’
‘And if they did,’ replied Henry, ‘would Louis withhold his support from a house with which he had such a strong alliance?’
‘It is a pity that Henry and Marguerite are too young to marry. Then with his own daughter married to the heir of England, Louis could do nothing but support you.’
‘Why should they be too young to marry?’
‘Henry is six years old. Marguerite not yet three.’
‘Her marriage portion is the Vexin,’ Henry reminded his wife. ‘If the Vexin were in my control Normandy is safe and that would give me an opportunity to turn my attention in other directions.’
‘But such children!’
‘Why not! We shall not put them to bed. But there could be a ceremony. Louis cannot object. He has agreed to the match. I will get them married and with the marriage, the Vexin. Every Duke of Normandy has known the importance of that territory.’
‘You’d have to get a dispensation from the Pope.’
‘I got one before for our Abbess’s marriage, remember. Alexander is very insecure. If I promised him my support for the dispensation do you doubt it would be mine?’
‘You are a clever man, Henry.’
‘My dear wife, I should not long be King of England and Duke of Normandy if I were not!’
She could not help but admire the manner in which he got his will.
Marguerite and Henry were married. It was a quiet ceremony but it took place in the presence of two cardinals, and since it was truly a marriage the dowry could not be withheld. The Vexin was now under Henry’s rule and he felt a good deal more easy in his mind regarding the marriage of the King of France with Adela of Blois.
Urged by Eleanor Henry decided that he was in a position to launch an attack on Toulouse and bring it where Eleanor had long decided it should be - allied with Aquitaine, in the possession of that province’s Duke and Duchess.
He had the Vexin to safeguard Normandy; England was well governed by his justiciary the Earl of Leicester, and he sent Chancellor Becket to England to raise a company of knights and bring them into France. He was sure that little effort would be necessary to subdue Raymond of Toulouse. Louis hated war; he would stand aside and all Henry would have to do was take a castle or two to assure Raymond of his strength.
Henry had underestimated Louis and it was an unpleasant surprise to learn that the King of France refused to remain aloof. He had a family tie with Raymond who had married his sister; moreover the Count of Toulouse was one of his vassals. It was a fact that Henry Plantagenet was becoming too overbearing - and in consequence it seemed too powerful. Louis was aware that a stop would have to be made to such headlong progress and declared that he would go to the help of his brother-in-law.
Henry was nonplussed. He had no desire to go to war against the King of France; he could see a major engagement developing; it would never do for him to defeat the King of France. Nor would it do for the King of France to defeat him. He could not take over France. There would be endless trouble if he did. He would be fighting in France for the rest of his life.
But what could he do? He had declared war on Raymond of Toulouse. Becket had arrived with his array of knights and the King of Scotland had offered to come to his aid.
Uncertainly he marched to Toulouse and when the walls of the city were in sight news was brought to him that Louis himself was within.
The King called a halt to his armies. He sent for his Chancellor.
‘This is a sorry state of affairs, Becket,’ he said.
‘Why so, my lord? It was your wish to make war on Toulouse.’
‘I know, I know. But the King of France is within that city.’
‘By being there he declares himself to be an enemy of yours.’
‘What if I were to kill the King of France ?’
‘I was thinking, my lord, what if he were to kill you?’
‘Bah! He never would. He’s no soldier. He’ll have no stomach for the fight.’
‘Stomach enough to place himself at the head of his armies and join Raymond of Toulouse against you.’
‘I would I had never begun this. Help me out of it, Thomas. Tell me what I can do now.’
‘The Duke of Normandy is the vassal of the King of France.’
‘Tel
l me not what I know already.’
‘You have sworn to serve him and accept him as your liege lord. How could you then take up arms against him?’
‘I can and would if so be I had a mind.’
‘Yet you have no heart for this because you ask yourself is it a just fight? My lord, in England many of your subjects have sworn allegiance to you. If you break your word to the suzerain of the Duke of Normandy, others might see it as a precedent and act accordingly towards the King of England. Might not those who have sworn allegiance to you break their vows in similar fashion?’
‘I see what you mean, Thomas.’
‘We can abandon this project. We can walk away from the walls of Toulouse.’
‘And what will be said of that?’
‘That the King of England is an honourable man. Since the King of France takes sides with Raymond of Toulouse, and as Duke of Normandy Henry Plantagenet has sworn allegiance to him, he abandons what would appear to be certain victory for the sake of his honour.’
Henry looked at his Chancellor, narrowed his eyes and burst into his loud laughter.
‘You have it, Thomas. You have it, friend. Did I not always know that you would provide me with the right and righteous answer.’
There was a certain amount of puzzlement regarding the King’s action. Why had he gathered together an army only to take it to the walls of Toulouse, and then lead it away?
Was Henry Plantagenet afraid of the combined forces of Toulouse and France? It was strange, for the advantage was all his.
Speculation as to his inability to succeed was dispersed almost immediately for Louis’s brother Robert, hungry for power, had seized the opportunity to attack Normandy.
Henry had no scruples here. He went straight into the fight and so trounced Robert that he was soon suing for peace.
Thus Henry’s reputation as a man of honour was enhanced with no loss to that as a commander of armies.
It had not been such an unprofitable affair after all. Only Eleanor was frustrated and angry. She had been furious to discover that she was once more pregnant and secretly upbraided herself for allowing this to happen, but she concentrated her reproaches on Henry’s failure to take Toulouse.
‘It is mine,’ she declared. ‘It came to me with my grandfather. You who took England, who took Normandy, could have taken Toulouse.’
Henry shrugged his shoulders. ‘I will take what I want and when I want it,’ he told her.
‘But not Toulouse! You are afraid of the King of France. Afraid of my meek monk Louis!’
‘Rant all you wish,’ said the King. ‘I shall heed you not.’
‘Mayhap,’ retaliated Eleanor, ‘one of these days my sons will be old enough to fight for their mother.’
‘A fine thing to say when you may well be carrying one of them now.’
‘Do not goad me too far, Henry,’ retorted Eleanor, ‘or you will regret it.’
‘You may apply the same to me,’ he retorted.
Her frustration was intolerable. It was unfair that it should always be the woman’s lot to bear the children.
This shall be the last, she promised herself. But had she not said that when Geoffrey was born?
In due course she gave birth to her child in the town of Domfront.
She named her Eleanor after herself.
Archbishop Theobald was writing frequently to Thomas.
‘You are still Archdeacon of Canterbury yet we never see you here. What of the affairs of the Church? Do you forget them in your secular duties?’
Thomas told the King of the Archbishop’s requests for his return.
‘Tell the old man I need you with me,’ replied the King.
‘I should doubtless resign my post of Archdeacon.’
‘Nay. ‘Tis better for you to remain in the Church.’
‘It is long since I was in Canterbury. I should return, for my old friend and patron grows old. In his last letter he calls himself my spiritual father and prophesies that he has not long for this world. He wishes me to go back to Canterbury before he dies.’
‘You cannot go, Thomas. I need you here. Write to the Archbishop and tell him your King needs his Chancellor. Who brought your name before me when I needed a Chancellor? Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury. So he cannot complain now that I took the man he chose for me, and now I expect him to hold his post.’
So Thomas wrote to Theobald and explained to him that he would return as soon as he could leave the King.
Henry smiled secretly. He was determined that Thomas should not have that opportunity. In fact he was wondering how he could bind Thomas more closely to him, for he was enjoying his company more and more. He looked for honours to heap upon him and he decided that he would put his son Henry, the young bridegroom, into his charge.
Already several noblemen had sent their sons into the household of Thomas Becket, where the boys would learn not only book lore but how to behave in a chivalrous and knightly manner. They would learn elegance and courtliness with such a man as Thomas Becket.
‘I shall give my boy Henry into your keeping,’ the King told Thomas. ‘You will bring him up to be honourable, righteous, and at the same time to behave like a king. You will teach him to love the good things of life and at the same time keep his peace with God. A rare combination, my friend. Sometimes methinks only you know the secret.’
‘I shall do all in my power to bring up your son as a good Christian prince,’ replied Becket.
‘Take him to England. Let it be arranged that all the barons and bishops do homage to him. Let England recognise him as their future king.’
Before Thomas reached England Theobald was dead and Thomas regretted that he had not disobeyed the King’s orders and gone back to say a last farewell to his old friend.
In fairness to himself he could suppress his conscience. He was the King’s Chancellor and in this important post had his duties to perform. Theobald would have understood that. Thomas wondered whether at the end Theobald had regretted getting the Chancellorship for him.
He now devoted himself to the task of carrying out the King’s orders regarding young Henry. The boy soon became devoted to him and the task was pleasant, but it was not long before there came a message from the King.
Thomas was to join him in Normandy.
The See of Canterbury had been vacant for some months, and the country was without its chief archbishop. Henry was in no great hurry to fill the post for while it was vacant the vast revenues fell into his coffers.
The winter had been bad and Thomas suffered great discomfort from the cold, and as a result became ill and was forced to rest at St Gervase in Rouen while the royal party went on to Falaise.
One day when he was well enough to sit up he wrapped himself in a loose robe and was playing a game of chess with one of his knights when the Prior of Leicester called to see him.
The Prior expressed astonishment to see him in such unclerical garb. ‘Why, my lord,’ he said, ‘you look more like a falconer than an archdeacon. Yet churchman you are. Your titles even now are formidable. Archdeacon of Canterbury, Dean of Hastings, Provost of Beverley and Canon of Rouen. Nor is that all.’
‘What mean you by “nor is that all”?’ asked Thomas.
‘I speak only of the rumours and what is said to be in the King’s mind concerning the Archbishopric of Canterbury.’
‘And what is this then?’
‘That he has it in his mind to make you his Archbishop.’
Thomas rose unsteadily to his feet.
‘Nay, you have heard amiss.’
‘This is what is said in court circles. Those who are intimate with the King are saying that he has mentioned your name in this connection.’
‘It must not be. I know three priests in England whom I would rather see promoted to the Archbishopric than myself.’
‘Are you not an ambitious man then, Chancellor?’
‘My ambition is to do my duty.’
‘Then could you not please God
doubly as head of his Church in England?’
‘The King has been my good friend. I know him intimately. I know it would not be good for me to be his Archbishop. I am his Chancellor. As such I can serve him well. It would please me to go on as I am.’
‘The King holds you in such esteem that he would wish to see you head of the Church.’
‘If I became Archbishop of Canterbury I should not hold his favour.’
‘Why should you not?’
‘Because the King likes not those who do not agree with him.’
‘He likes his Chancellor.’
‘We can disagree in secular matters yes, and do. And in these I should be forced to give way to the King. If I were Archbishop I might be called upon to set aside my duty to God in order to please the King.’
‘You’re a strange man, Thomas Becket.’
‘I know myself,’ answered Thomas, ‘and I know the King. I shall decline his offer of the Archbishopric.’
It was difficult to continue with that game of chess. Uneasy thoughts had settled in Thomas’s mind and come to stay.
The King sent for him at his castle of Falaise.
‘Hey, Thomas,’ he cried. I trust I see you well. Why, you look thin and wan, man. Be of good cheer. Soon we shall set sail for England. I’ll warrant our green fields will make you well again.’
The King’s eyes were glazed with sentiment. He was thinking of Rosamund in her bower waiting to see him. It would in truth be good to be home again.
He turned to Thomas and there was deep affection in his eyes.
‘I wanted to talk with you, Thomas, about a certain matter. It’s months since old Theobald died.’
‘Almost a year,’ said Thomas.
‘And the See of Canterbury has been vacant all this time. Not that I will complain about that. But it seems we must have an Archbishop there and my thoughts have alighted on the man best suited to fill the part.’
