——

She supposed, to be fair, that her overt suspicion of Becket was the reason why Henry had not initially told her that he was going hunting with his new friend. When he informed her, without offering any reason, that he would be away for a few days, and she unthinkingly asked where he was bound, he glibly told her that he was going to make sure that the castles of certain barons who had caused trouble during the anarchy of Stephen’s reign had been dismantled, as he had ordered; but he’d looked like a small boy playing truant from his lessons.

She’d smelled a rat then. Something was not right. He was lying to her! She knew it.

“Where are these castles?” she pressed him.

“In the midlands.” Again she sensed he was making it up. And the lie was easily exposed, for only hours afterward she had heard the justiciar speaking of the King’s hunting trip.

“I thought you were going to inspect fortifications,” she had challenged Henry.

“I am,” he said. “Is a man not allowed to combine business with pleasure?”

It was a less than satisfactory answer, and it left Eleanor wondering why Henry felt the need to be so evasive. It was only when she saw Becket riding away with him, chatting and laughing, that the truth dawned on her. He had wanted to get away and spend time with his friend, and thought his wife would not approve; that she might feel slighted because he should prefer her company to Becket’s.

He would have been right. She did feel slighted. She also feared that there was something wrong about all this. What were they up to? Wenching? Whoring? Drinking? No, that could not be—Becket never drank, nor did he frequent women. Even so, Eleanor could not suppress her conviction that something odd was going on.

Who would ever have thought that Henry would desert her for the company of a member of his own sex? But that was what he had done. There had been no falling out between husband and wife. Indeed, Henry was as ardent a lover as ever on the nights he came to her bed; yet it gradually dawned on her that he now preferred to spend his waking hours with Becket—the insidious Becket, who had become his indispensable comrade and adviser in such a breathtakingly short time.

Her mind in tumult, Eleanor thrust aside the brocade coverlet, pulled back the bed curtains, and slipped out of bed, padding across the green and red tiled floor to the garderobe in the fastness of the thick stone wall. There, having relieved herself, she took a loose robe from its peg and went to rouse the two damsels in attendance, who were sleeping on bench beds along the chamber wall. Her eye was drawn, as it often was, to the new tapestry woven in vivid blues and reds, which hung high on the pale stone wall above the fireplace—a real innovation, this last, a hearth built into the wall. It was the very latest in comfort, and Eleanor was hoping to persuade Henry to have more constructed in his castles and palaces. So far, though, he had shown scant interest in the idea, for material luxuries meant little to him, but Eleanor was not giving up yet. She liked her creature comforts.

The tapestry depicted the Wheel of Fortune, an ever-present reminder of the ultimate futility of striving for earthly happiness. She wondered now why she had chosen it, and thought that she might one day replace it with something more cheerful—a scene from one of the legends of King Arthur, perhaps, or the romance of Tristan and Yseult, tales much beloved by her.

She had only days before taken up residence in the newly renovated palace of Westminster, a strong and beautiful complex of honey-colored buildings surrounded and protected by a mighty outwork and stone bastions. The palace rose majestically above the broad, rippling Thames, and was surrounded by woodlands to the west and a teeming suburb to the east, with Westminster Abbey opposite. Eleanor had already been to pay her respects at the tomb of its founder, the Saxon King Edward the Confessor, whom many now accounted a saint. That was hardly surprising, Eleanor thought, smiling, when he had refused to bed his wife and get an heir because of his piety!

The Queen’s bedchamber, solar, and bower were in the fine new royal apartments built by King Stephen. To the south, nearer the river bank, lay the older part of the palace raised by William Rufus, and now given over to the royal departments of state, the Treasury, Chancery, and Exchequer. Rufus’s huge hall adjoined it; reputed to be the largest hall in Europe. Henry was planning to set up a court here, where his justices would implement his laws. He had also spoken to Eleanor of his idea of appointing jurors—twelve good, true men—to decide verdicts, in place of trial by ordeal or combat. She was so proud of him when he showed such passion for good government and the welfare of his subjects.

After mass, Eleanor broke her fast with bread, fruit, and ale, then conferred with her steward about the appointment of a master cook; the food in England, she had discovered, left much to be desired. After that she summoned her clerks, listened to petitions, and dictated letters. Henry had always trusted her to deal with routine business in his absence. “By English law,” he had told her after the coronation, “you, the Queen, are a sharer in my imperial kingship.” She had been thrilled to hear him say that.

Business done, she and her ladies amused themselves by making music, one of Eleanor’s favorite pastimes. Mamille played the pipe, Torqueri the tabor, and Petronilla the harp, as Eleanor strummed a cithara. The others joined in clapping, and before long someone suggested they dance. Soon they were caroling around the bower, skirts and veils flying.

Eleanor reflected that they were very lucky to enjoy lives of such leisure and luxury. The Queen’s lodgings were a haven of retreat from Henry’s chaotic court, and beautifully appointed, with her chambers boasting every comfort: fine carved furniture, carpets imported from the Orient, plump cushions and silken hangings, even glass in the windows. She supposed she must thank Becket for that. Only weeks before, during the first days of spring, she had grown impatient of staying at the dark, cramped palace of Bermondsey, and urged Henry to put in hand restoration works at Westminster. He himself had conceived great plans for Westminster, so he’d willingly agreed and immediately appointed Becket to oversee the refurbishment. Becket had thrown himself into the task with his usual enthusiasm and flair, and in a matter of just weeks the great palace had been transformed, down to the very last detail. Nothing was overlooked.

Despite her reservations, she had found Becket easy to work with, and grudgingly admired his smooth efficiency. He had deferred to her in every possible way. Would Madame the Queen prefer this damask or that silk? Should he order silver or gold candlesticks for her chapel? Maybe her chair of estate was too high, and he should obtain a footstool? Was the canopy of estate to her liking? She was sufficiently fair-minded to admit that she’d had no cause for complaint.

And yet … she could not like him. There was something about the man that repelled her, something she could not define, which was strange, because Becket was exceptionally good-looking, with his proud, finely chiseled features, and she usually responded warmly to handsome men. But there was a coldness about him when he was in her presence, a coldness that was never apparent when he was in Henry’s company, and she sensed also an aversion to herself, for all his courtesy. Maybe he was aware of her resentment, which would not be surprising, for she found it hard to unbend to him as she did to most other people. But she felt it was more than that. It was almost as if they were rivals.

It soon seemed to Eleanor that Becket stood with the King as Joseph had with Pharaoh.

“He is too smooth in his dealings,” she’d said carefully to Henry. She had to tread cautiously because he would hear no criticism of his friend. She forbore to add that she suspected Becket of also being self-seeking and manipulative, and that—the antipathy between them aside—there was something about him that repelled her, something she could not explain, even to herself.