by Jean Plaidy
During the last year he had been very ill, and it was known that death was not far away. He had written several times to Henry, begging him to return to England that he might behold “his son, the Lord’s anointed, before he died.” Henry could not, of course, allow sentimental attachments to defer him from protecting his lands overseas, so Theobald’s request went unanswered. Theobald also asked that Thomas Becket, his archdeacon, might be spared to visit him. But Henry would not send Thomas either.
They had patched up their quarrel over the action at Toulouse, but I imagined Thomas had learned a lesson. He could go so far and no farther—although that was a great deal farther than most men would dare go.
Theobald expressed the hope that the King would consider Thomas Becket to fill the post of Archbishop of Canterbury which would fall vacant on his death.
Theobald died that April. Henry was upset that he had lost such a good man, but he said he was in no hurry to fill his post. He could very well do without an Archbishop of Canterbury.
I was surprised that Theobald had suggested Becket. That worldly man—whose vanity was clearly a part of his nature, for otherwise why should he always appear in such exquisite garments and surround himself with beautiful possessions and revel in the life of luxury—Archbishop of Canterbury! It must have been a joke.
“Of course,” said Henry, “if he were my Archbishop I could expect to be on better terms with the Church than I and my ancestors have sometimes been.”
“Thomas is a man who has his own opinions. Remember what he felt about Toulouse.”
“Thomas comes around to my way of thinking when it is necessary to do so.”
“Have you broached the subject with him?”
Henry shook his head. “Not yet. I am unsure . . . so far. There is another matter I have to discuss with you. It concerns young Henry.”
“What of him?”
“He is now a married man.”
“He is six years old.”
“Too old for a future king to be in his mother’s nursery.”
“I have always watched over the care of my children.”
“Which you must admit is not quite expected for a royal brood.”
“I care not what is expected. These are my children.”
“But listen to me. Henry has to be brought up in the household of a nobleman where he can learn the manly arts . . . where he is not able to run to his mother when he hurts his little finger.”
“That is not how the nurseries are run. The children are taught to be strong and resolute.”
“I know your feelings for them and I applaud them . . . in a measure. But Henry has to get out into the world. It has always been thus.”
I pondered this. It was true. Henry was getting to an age when he must leave the family nest for a while. I should not lose him altogether. Like all my children he was especially devoted to me. Henry’s relationship with his children was perhaps the one part of his life in which he failed. His attempts to show affection were often clumsy. They respected and admired me; they liked my beautiful gowns; they would stroke the material and I would explain to them what it was and how I had designed my gown myself. They were my children more than his.
Henry would have to go, of course. I was delighted that Richard had quite a long time to stay with me.
I said: “Into whose household did you propose to send him?”
“Why, Becket’s, of course.”
“Becket’s!”
“Why not? I shall send him to England with the child very soon.”
“You have told Becket?”
“I have.”
“And what does he think?”
“He is delighted. He already loves the boy.”
I said: “At least he will be brought up to have a pride in his appearance.”
That amused Henry. “True,” he said. “He will be turned into an exquisite gentleman who will please his mother. Becket will make a man of him as well.”
Of course the boy would have his riding masters, his archery instructors; he would learn the laws of chivalry and everything that was necessary to his upbringing; and with Becket he would be trained in art, literature, music and all those accomplishments which I thought so necessary. No, I was not displeased. If he had to go to someone, Becket was the best choice.
“And what,” I said, “if Becket becomes the Archbishop of Canterbury?”
“I seen no harm in the future King’s being brought up in the household of an Archbishop, do you?”
“None whatsoever,” I replied.
“There is something else. I want to make sure that there is no strife after my death. I want Henry crowned King of England.”
“What . . . now!”
He nodded. “I lead a somewhat hazardous life. Here one day, but who knows where I shall be the next. What if I were to die tomorrow?”
“God forbid!”
“Thank you for your heartfelt expression of love for me.”
“Why do you talk of death in this way?”
“Because it is all around us. I want to make the throne safe for the boy.”
“But he is the natural heir.”
“There would be some, I daresay, to cast doubt on that. I want to be sure that, when I die, there is a king on the throne. I want Henry crowned . . . soon.”
“But what of you?”
“There will be two Kings.”
“Two Kings! Who ever heard of such! And one a boy of six.”
“He shall be King before I die. He won’t know it, of course. It will make no difference, but he will be crowned, and if I died tomorrow, he is the King of England. The English would be very loath to turn from the throne one who has been anointed as their King.”
“I wonder at the wisdom of it.”
“I am sure of the wisdom of it.”
“Would the lords agree?”
“They might have to be persuaded.”
“I expect you could do that.”
“With Becket’s help.”
“You have discussed this with Becket?”
“Not yet. Of course if he were Archbishop of Canterbury he would crown the boy.”
This man amazed me. I felt I should never know him.
We traveled to Rouen to see Matilda, who received us with great joy. She had changed even in the time since I had last seen her. I wondered if I should alter like that when my life was nearing its end. She was no longer the stormy creature of her earlier years. I believe her rages had been as violent as Henry’s, only more dignified. I could not imagine her lying on the floor biting the rushes. Now she was a lady of good works. The people of Normandy had always respected her; it was those of England who would not have her. She had completed a Cistercian house near Lillebonne, was very proud of it and pleased that she had lived long enough to see its completion for, she told me, when she had been in Oxford, just before she had sped across the ice, she had made a vow to God that, if he would allow her to escape, she would build such a place.
Now she felt at peace.
Henry talked to her as he always had. He really did regard her as one of his generals. He always remembered that he could rely on her loyalty as on few others’, and in addition to that he respected her judgment.
He talked about the vacant See of Canterbury.
“Theobald was a good man,” she said. “It is always a sadness to lose such as he was. He was never a friend of mine. He was always Stephen’s man, but he was unswerving in his devotion, and being a man of some wisdom he must have known that Stephen was not good for the country. Then on Stephen’s death he turned to you with great relief. But he would never have helped you while Stephen lived. That is the sort of man you want around you. As I grow older, I regard loyalty as the greatest gift.”
“We have to fill the vacancy,” Henry said.
“Which you must do with the utmost care. An Archbishop of Canterbury can have too much power for a monarch’s comfort.”
“That is what I think,” said Henry. “I
t is why I am considering putting Becket in it.”
Matilda put her hand to her throat and turned pale.
“Becket!” she cried. “Oh no, you must not do that.”
“Why?” cried Henry. “He is the very man. He will work with me . . . not against me . . . as so many churchmen would do. I want no one taking his orders from Rome.”
“I feel it would be wrong to appoint Becket,” she said quietly.
“You do not know him as I do.”
“He is not so much a man of the Church as a diplomat.”
“Why should not the two go together?”
“It would be wrong.”
“I tell you, you do not know Becket.”
“I know it would not work.”
“But why . . . why? Give me one reason why it would be wrong.”
I reached out and touched her hand. She took mine and held it fast. “I spend a great deal of time in prayer and meditation now, Henry,” she said. “I can only say that something tells me it would be wrong. If you do this you will regret it. It will bring you great sorrow.”
“To have my best friend in such a post!”
“He cannot be Chancellor and Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“Why not? Tell me why not.”
“He cannot,” she said.
“My dear lady Empress, you are not acting with your usual good sense. Tell me what you have against Becket.”
“Nothing—except that he must not be your Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“Why? Why? Why?”
“I know it. There will be pain and suffering . . . violence. It must not be. I know these things.”
Henry said: “I have made up my mind.”
“Becket has not agreed yet,” I reminded him.
“Becket will do as he is told.”
I could see that opposition was strengthening Henry’s resolve. Usually he listened to his mother but in this matter I feared his mind was made up.
When I was alone with her, Matilda said to me: “Try to persuade him. It is wrong. I am convinced of it.”
“You know Henry. Can anyone ask him to change his mind once he has made it up?”
“Oh, he is obstinate . . . obstinate. I trust this will not come to pass.”
“If you know something . . . if you could give him some good reason, he would listen to you.”
She touched her heart. “It is just a feeling I have here.”
And that was all she would say.
We took our farewells of her. Henry was as affectionate as ever toward her but he did not mention Becket to her again.
I said to him: “She is very insistent. It was almost as though she had some spiritual knowledge.”
“She has become very religious. I would never have believed it of her. She thinks Thomas a dandy, an ambitious man—and of course that is not her idea of what a man of the Church should be.”
“She did not say that . . . just that she had a strong conviction.”
“She is growing old, alas. She was a great woman when she was younger.”
I said: “I think she is a great woman now. Have you discussed this matter of Becket with your ministers?”
“The decision is mine.”
“Why not wait until you get back to England and take it up with Leicester and de Luci?”
“I don’t need to. My mind is made up.”
“And you think Becket will accept?”
“I think he must when he knows it is my will.”
I knew then that Becket would become our next Archbishop of Canterbury.
Becket’s reaction to the suggestion was one of dismay. Henry told me of his reluctance.
“He declares that it will be the end of our friendship.”
“Why so?”
“Because the Church has always been at variance with the State.”
“Did you not tell him that your reason for appointing him was that your being such great friends—one head of the State, end head of the Church—you could put an end to such variance?”
“I told him that, yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“That if the variance was there, our friendship would not change it.”
“I must admit it is a strange appointment for such an ambitious man.”
“All archbishops are ambitious. Otherwise they would be parish priests all their lives.”
“But a man who is known for his sumptuous hospitality, who lives like a prince, who spends most of his time hunting and hawking with his dear friend, the King . . . he is not the man for the Church. A strange choice indeed for such a post.”
“I want it,” said Henry. “He will work for me. My Chancellor and my Archbishop. It is an excellent arrangement.”
“You hope to manipulate Becket.”
“He might attempt to manipulate me.”
“He will not succeed. No one would succeed in doing that.”
“Ah, you have confidence in me then?”
“Confidence in your determination to have your own way and brush aside all who attempt to stop you.”
“Then I will have my way in the Church.”
“And has he accepted?”
“He was persuaded at length by those prelates who were present. They knew my will and they wanted to please me. Thomas said he was uneasy and he told me privately that he would be deeply grieved if there was friction between us.”
“He was outspoken about Toulouse.”
“Thomas would always be outspoken.”
“We can only hope that this appointment will bring harmony between Church and State.”
Thomas returned to England, taking young Henry with him. I was relieved to see that there was already affection between them. Thomas would be kindly and gentle with the boy, and that eased my qualms considerably.
In due course I heard that the Canterbury Chapter, having been made aware by the justiciar of the King’s insistence, elected Thomas Archbishop, and later the election was ratified at Westminster by the bishops and clergy there. By June he was ordained priest in Canterbury Cathedral by the Bishop of Rochester, and the following day he was consecrated by the Bishop of Winchester. Henry arranged for the pallium to be sent to him from Rome, so that he did not have to make the journey there to get it; and by August he had received it.
He was now Archbishop of Canterbury but Henry thought it wise to postpone that other scheme for crowning Henry for a while, although he intended to do it in time.
Our progress through our dominions had taken us to Choisi on the Loire, and it was while we were resting there for a short period that the first indication of what trouble might be brewing between Henry and Thomas was given to us.
A messenger arrived from Canterbury. Henry received him at once. I was with him at the time and eager to know what news there was from England.
The messenger handed Henry a package. He opened it and stood for a moment looking in astonishment at what it revealed. It was the Great Seal of England and could mean only one thing. I saw his face grow purple as he read the accompanying letter.
I dismissed the messenger for I could see that Henry was going to have one of his rages and it would be well for the innocent carrier of bad news to be out of sight of that.
I went to him and took the letter from him. It was from Thomas Becket. It stated that he must resign the chancellorship as he could not do his duty to one master while he served another.
Henry was spluttering: “The knave! What did he think . . . it was what I planned. Chancellor and Archbishop . . . his duty lying with me. Now he will be a slave to the Pope.”
I shook my head slowly. Now was not the time to remind him of how his mother and others had warned him against taking this step. I saw the foam at his mouth and the wild look in his eyes. He picked up a stool and threw it at the tapestried wall. He clenched his fists, and blasphemies poured from his lips.
I stood watching him quietly.
This was a genuine rage. He had thought to rule Thomas Becket and he h
ad thrust him into a position which he did not want; now he was realizing that even he could make mistakes. His rage was against himself as much as Thomas. He flung himself onto the floor and catching up bunches of rushes gnawed at them insanely.
I think I fell completely out of love with him in that moment. I was uneasy. Instinct told me that this was the beginning of conflict between the King and his newly appointed Archbishop.
My daughter was born that year. She was named Eleanor after me. We were in Normandy at the time, at a place called Domfont. She had a ceremonious baptism conducted by the Cardinal Legate who happened to be there at the time, and she was presented at the font by the Bishop of Avranches and Robert de Monte, Abbot of Mount St. Michael.
She was a healthy baby—as all my babies had been, with the exception of William.
I was very happy with my children but I did miss my eldest, Henry, and his absence brought home to me the fact that I could not keep my children with me all the time.
The Beloved Enemy
I WAS NO LONGER YOUNG. At forty most women are resigned to old age. I was not like that. I redoubled my efforts. I adopted a discreet use of cosmetics; I was meticulous in choosing my clothes. I knew that I looked like a woman ten years younger.
Henry was twenty-nine and looked more than his age. He was the opposite of me and never made any attempt to protect himself from the ravages of time, spending long hours in the saddle, sleeping in any place which offered itself, sharing the discomforts of his soldiers. That was probably why he had their devotion.
Sometimes I looked at him, with his bow-legs, his rough skin, his earthiness, and I marveled that I could ever have been as obsessed by him as I was in the early days of our marriage. Added to all this was his blatant infidelity. I had accepted that because it meant nothing to him; and for all that he must have been aware of my waning affection there persisted a certain bond between us. We admired each other in certain ways. I had to admit that he was a great ruler; any decision he made had reason behind it. I had never known him make one which did not have what he believed to be some advantage to himself. Sometimes he was wrong, as in the case of appointing Thomas Becket to the Archbishopric of Canterbury, thinking to have a Chancellor-Archbishop whom he could control. It was a mistake but it had had logical reasoning behind it. He had miscalculated his man though—which was odd when one considered all the time he had spent with Becket.
