Henry’s expression was glacial. He sat rigid on his throne, gripping its wooden arms. “Are you defying me, my Lord of Canterbury?” he asked, his tone intimidating. But Becket stood his ground.

“Lord King, when you raised me to be Archbishop, you conferred on me a sacred trust. I would be betraying that trust if I failed to protect the Church’s immunity from secular interference.”

“You are practiced at betrayals, priest,” Henry muttered. A few caught his words and exchanged speculative glances. The expression on Becket’s face revealed that he had heard them too. He swallowed, then regained his composure.

“I am utterly opposed to this proposed reform, Lord King,” he stated, then looked sternly at his bishops, challenging them to support him. Some gazed at the floor, others seemed suddenly to have discovered something fascinating about their episcopal rings.

Bishop Gilbert Foliot stood up.

“I am with you, Lord King,” he announced defiantly. “It is the spirit of the law that counts, not the letter, be that law human or divine.”

“Thank you, my Lord of Hereford,” Henry said, gratified. “At least one of my clerics has some sense. What do the rest of you say? Who is for me?”

To a man, the barons raised their hands, and a few bishops tremulously followed suit. Becket rounded on them.

“Whom do you serve first, God or the King?” he barked. Across the chamber, his eyes met Henry’s. There was hatred in both men’s faces, and, in the King’s, pain also. But Becket was a man on a mission. He knew himself to be in the right. Earthly friendship must give place before the honor of God and His Church.

“I command you to oppose this so-called reform,” he instructed his clergy. “Every one of you, without exception.”

“Be careful, Thomas,” Henry growled. Becket ignored him.

“Those opposing, stand up!” he commanded. “There is more at issue here than your obedience to the King. You have your immortal souls to consider.”

No one moved for a moment, then one bishop stood up, followed by another, and another, until they were all standing, apart from Bishop Foliot, who remained resolutely seated.

“My Lord Bishop of Hereford?” Becket prompted. “I hope you are thinking of God, and of your conscience.”

“God and my conscience are in complete agreement,” Foliot retorted, folding his arms across his ample paunch.

“Very well,” Becket said in a dissatisfied voice.

“Enough of this charade!” Henry snarled. “You, my bishops—you will all swear obedience to the ancient customs of this realm. I command it!”

“But that would mean us swearing to uphold this law that you say King Henry passed,” Becket said.

“It is my right to require such an oath,” Henry told him firmly. “My laws must be upheld, and if my bishops don’t set a good example, what hope in Hell is there for the rest of us?”

Wincing at the King’s casual mention of Hell, Becket turned to his colleagues. “You must take the oath, as your duty to the King requires,” he told them, “but you must add the words ‘saving our order.’ Is that clear?”

“By the eyes of God!” Henry thundered. “Let me hear no word of your order! I demand absolute and express agreement to my laws.”

“Then, in all conscience, my King, I cannot require the bishops to take this oath,” Becket insisted. At that, Henry saw red. Shaking with anger, he got up and strode furiously from the chamber.

All of a sudden there were frenzied sounds of activity from the palace courtyard below, the shouts of agitated men, the whinnying of horses, the trundling of carts.

“Get your women to pack,” Henry told Eleanor as he burst into her chamber.

“What has happened?” she asked, rising to her feet and letting her embroidery fall to the floor. Little Matilda and Eleanor abandoned their skittles and looked up at their father warily. His rages terrified them. Mamille, seeing their anxious faces, set down her goblet, knelt on the floor, and rolled the ball in an attempt to distract them.

“It’s Becket!” Henry hissed. “He defied me again! In council, in front of all my lords, temporal and spiritual. He took the part of his criminous clerks; he opposed my reforms; and he forbade the bishops to swear an oath upholding my laws. Such defiance is treason!”

Eleanor poured him some wine and handed it to him, forbearing to speak. He gulped it back and resumed his tirade. “It is not to be borne! He shall pay for this.”

“What will you do?” Eleanor asked. She had resolved never to criticize Becket again, but to remain quietly supportive of Henry when he needed her to be. That way, she hoped to repair the damage she had done on that awful night in July.

Henry sat down heavily in her vacated chair, staring into the fire, breathing furiously. When at last he spoke, his voice was calmer, deadlier. “For a start, I’ll confiscate the rich manors and castles I bestowed on him when he was chancellor. He’ll find out what the loss of my favor must mean to him.”

He got up and began pacing. His daughters, at their mother’s nod, scuttled out of the way and retreated to the safety of the window seat, where they sat watching him fearfully. Eleanor smiled at them encouragingly, then turned back to their father.

“Is it right that, after what he has done, Thomas still has care of our son, your heir?” she inquired.

“No, by God, it is not right!” Henry stormed. “I will remove the boy from his household at once.”

“Let him come back to me,” she urged, but he looked at her as if she were mad.

“He is eight now, and far too old to be governed by women,” he said dismissively. “He shall have his own establishment and servants.”

Eleanor quelled her surging disappointment and reasoned that this would be more fitting for a king’s son.

“As long as I may see him from time to time,” she said hopefully.

“Of course,” Henry told her, but his mind was clearly on other things, festering over Becket’s betrayal. He was like a man possessed. She longed to comfort him, but knew very well that he would not welcome it.

“Shall I still get packed?” she asked. “Are we leaving here?”

Henry sighed. His rage was subsiding, now that he had thought of the means to have his revenge. “No. Forget it. I spoke in haste. I’ll go hunting tomorrow, and no doubt I’ll feel better afterward. Then I’ll be able to think clearly and decide what to do next.”

She smiled. “You had better go down and tell them to unload the carts and the sumpter mules.”

“I’ll be popular!” he said with a tired smile as he left her.

The highest in the land had gathered in the barrel-vaulted gloom of Westminster Abbey. Candles flickering in their tall sconces illuminated the faces of the great and the good, here to witness this momentous event. Word had recently come from Rome: the Pope had spoken. Nearly a hundred years after his death, King Edward the Confessor was now officially a saint, and Henry, in honor of his canonization, had built him a glorious shrine. Today, his remains were to be translated to their splendid new resting place, a masterpiece of stone, Purbeck marble, and mosaic, surmounted by an intricately carved wooden canopy.

The court and all the lords of England, spiritual and temporal, were crammed into the Confessor’s new chapel and its precincts. Eleanor was standing in her place of honor at the front with the King and their children, glad to have her eldest son at her side for once. Young Henry had grown in height and dignity these last years, and now wore his exalted status like a mantle. They had Becket to thank for that, she could not but admit it.

Becket was here too today, which was why the atmosphere in the abbey was so tense. He and Henry had faced each other across the floor of decorated tiles, and the air between them almost crackled with hostility. Yet on the surface, all was genial, with King and Archbishop exchanging the kiss of greeting, and Becket proceeding to conduct the long service with grave dedication, his clever, chiseled face set in a lofty, detached expression.