Falaise, 1162
They were keeping Easter at Falaise, the birthplace of the Conqueror, and the court was lodged in the massive fortress that dominated the town from its high position on the escarpment overlooking the River Ante.
“This was where William’s father, Duke Robert the Magnificent, was staying when he espied the woman Herleva,” Henry told Eleanor as they stood in the bailey staring up at the great buttressed keep with its Romanesque windows. “She was extraordinarily beautiful.” When he mentioned Herleva, he was thinking of Rohese.
“I heard he was called Robert the Devil,” Eleanor said wryly.
“Indeed he was, at least to begin with.” Henry grinned. “You see, I am doubly descended from the Devil!”
Eleanor made a face. “I can believe that!” she said, a touch tartly. “Wasn’t Herleva meant to be washing clothes in the river at the time?”
“She was, or so the story goes. She was a tanner’s daughter from the town. The duke saw her and fell in love instantly. She bore him two children. He couldn’t marry her, of course, as he had a wife already, so their son was called William the Bastard before his victories earned him the name of Conqueror.”
They strolled around the bailey and entered the little Chapel of St. Prix, where Henry pointed to an iron-studded door.
“That leads to the crypt, where I store some of my treasure. There are only two keys. I have one—and Thomas has the other.”
At the mention of Becket, Eleanor frowned. If anyone should have held the second key, it was herself, but again Becket had usurped her.
“I wanted to talk to you about Thomas,” Henry said. They sat down on a stone bench beneath the window.
“I have made up my mind that he is to be my archbishop. No, wait!” He held up a hand to still her unvoiced protest. “Thomas is my friend, and loyal to me. The Church has become too powerful, and I have radical plans for reforming the abuses within it. I know he will support me.”
“What makes you so sure?” Eleanor asked, her expression troubled.
“His unstinting and faithful service over these past years speaks for itself,” Henry said warmly. “With my true Thomas as Archbishop, I foresee no trouble in implementing these very necessary reforms.”
“Then you have made up your mind,” Eleanor stated, knowing that nothing she could say would make any difference. She knew too, in her bones, that Henry was making a bad decision for all the wrong reasons, and feared that no good would come of it. Others, wiser than herself—among them the Empress Matilda and Bishop Foliot—had voiced their concerns, but Henry paid them no heed. Well, he must go to Hell in his own way.
“I havemade up my mind,” Henry said firmly. “You could at least look cheerful about it!”
She smiled distantly. “Let us hope that your confidence in Thomas is justified.”
“Oh, it will be, it will be,” he assured her blithely.
——
They were enthroned on the dais in the hall when Becket came in response to Henry’s summons. Eleanor noticed how regally he was dressed, his embroidered scarlet tunic and blue cloak in stark contrast to the plain, mended garb of his master. But Henry had never cared much for the trappings of majesty. He let Becket be his ambassador in such things: Becket’s magnificence could proclaim the wealth and status of the King of England.
Henry leaped up from his throne and embraced his chancellor warmly.
“Thomas, I have a mission for you.”
“Yes, my lord?” Becket’s handsome face bore an eager look, as if he could not wait to hear about this latest duty that Henry was now to require of him.
“First, I want to ask after your adopted son, the Lord Henry. How is he?” the King inquired.
“He is well, my lord, and his diligence at his studies is indeed praiseworthy, although I daresay he would rather be learning swordplay than attending to his letters.” Becket smiled.
“I pray you, my Lord Chancellor, remember his mother to him,” Eleanor said wistfully.
“Rest assured, my lady, that he includes you in his daily prayers without fail,” he told her, then turned back to the King. “Does this mission concern my adopted son?” he asked.
“Yes. I want you to take him to England and have the barons swear fealty to him as my heir,” Henry commanded. “You are to leave at once, so that the ceremony can take place at Whitsun, but first, have the boy brought here now to say farewell to us.”
“If my lord will grant me leave,” Becket said, bowing and departing.
Eleanor was thrilled. She was to see her son, albeit briefly. It had been four long months since she’d set eyes on him.
When Becket returned later, bringing the seven-year-old Henry with him, Eleanor noticed the change in the boy at once. He seemed taller, more self-assured; on greeting, it became clear that there was, for the first time, a palpable distance between him and his mother. He bowed gracefully over her hand and stood a little stiffly when she opened up her arms to embrace him. His father’s boisterous hug he bore more readily, and it was brought home to her that in her son’s eyes, she had diminished in importance, although his courtesy toward her was faultless. It nearly broke her heart, but she remained smiling, and resolutely kept her distance.
“I see you have taught the lad courtly manners!” Henry observed, ruffling his offspring’s red curls. “Well, my Lord Henry. You are to go to England to receive the homage of my barons, as my heir. All you have to do is sit there and look happy about it. Just remember you are not king yet!”
They all laughed, but there was an excited and defiant glint in the boy’s eyes that rode ill with the humility he was supposed to show to his royal father. Eleanor alone noticed it, and felt a fleeting chill in her heart. Was her son, young as he was, ambitious to fill that father’s shoes? Had Henry’s words brought home to him the reality of his great destiny? Both of them had done their best to prepare Young Henry for eventual kingship, but maybe he had not quite understood what it would really mean—until now. Or maybe he was just excited at the prospect of a sea voyage and of being made to feel important, as any young boy would be. She shrugged off her fears. She was overreacting, she told herself, a bad habit of hers. It was the prospect of yet another parting from her son that was making her so sensitive, undoubtedly.
“Go and make ready, my young lord,” Becket was saying. “And walk! A future king does not run, but maintains a dignified pace.”
Henry burst out laughing. “I think Iought to take some lessons in kingship from you, Thomas!”
Becket bestowed that slow, attractive smile of his. “I too will go and prepare for the journey, my lord.”
“Wait,” Henry said. “You do not yet fully comprehend your mission.”
“My lord?” Becket, for once, looked bewildered.
“It is my intention,” Henry said, gazing upon him affectionately, “that you should become Archbishop of Canterbury.”
A look of horror fixed itself on Becket’s face. He stood there, seemingly unable to speak. Eleanor had never seen him so discomposed.
“My lord,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with shock, “do not do this, I beg of you.”
The smile froze on the King’s face.
“Come now, Thomas. Surely you can see the wisdom in my decision,” he said evenly.
“Lord King,” Becket replied desperately, “I beseech you to reconsider, for many good reasons. I know that if you make me Archbishop, you will demand many things of me—things I might be unable to grant. Allow me to speak plainly. Already it is said that you presume much in matters affecting the Church. If you seek to push through reforms that conflict with the honor of the Church, I would be bound to oppose them.”