Beside Eleanor, Richard fidgeted. He never could stand still, loving to be off riding his palfrey or practicing the swordplay at which he was becoming so adept. But his mother’s warning hand on his shoulder quelled his restlessness. How like his father he is, Eleanor thought. Her gaze swept her other children, who were all on their honor to behave composedly. They were standing solemnly, overawed by the august gathering and the sense of occasion that inspired the stately proceedings.
Henry watched the ritual with narrowed, steely eyes. He had longed for this day, could not do enough to honor the memory of this saint whose canonization he had pressed for so passionately—and now it was all spoiled by the presence of Thomas Becket. Damn him, he thought, as fresh rage infused him. What was the matter with Thomas? It seemed he was deliberately doing everything in his power to provoke his king. Take that matter of William of Eynsford, one of Henry’s vassals. It had been but a petty dispute over some land, but my Lord Archbishop must take umbrage and excommunicate the man! Thomas had knownthat would infuriate him, but it hadn’t deterred him. What was Thomas trying to prove? That he was more powerful than the King?
Receiving a surreptitious nudge from Eleanor, Henry realized he had forgotten where he was and why he was here. He pulled himself up: this business of Becket was becoming an obsession. Get public opinion on your side, his mother, the Empress, had written. Well, he would do that. But first he must try to focus his mind on the present.
They were opening the vault now. Sixty years before, the monks of Westminster had lifted the lid and found the Confessor’s corpse whole and uncorrupted. Henry was glad he had ordered the abbot secretly to peek into the sarcophagus to confirm that it was still intact, if only for the sake of his daughters, whose eyes were wide with apprehension; Matilda had her hand to her mouth. Young Geoffrey, he noted, was watching it all with avid interest, unshrinking. A clever boy, Geoffrey, fearless and cunning; he would go far, his father thought proudly.
There was a reverent hush as the corpse of the saint was gradually exposed in its cloth-of-gold vestments, its skin parchmentlike and brown, the eyes sunken, the nose still firm. After the King and Queen and the peers had a chance to view it, it was wrapped in precious silk cloths, then reverently lifted into its dazzling new gold coffin encrusted with gems, which Henry and his principal barons hoisted onto their shoulders and conveyed in solemn procession through the abbey cloisters before reverently placing it in its new shrine. Then the Te Deum Laudamuswas sung in joyful celebration.
The ceremony over, the King bowed low before St. Edward’s shrine, swept unseeing past Archbishop Becket, and led the way out of the church. He should have felt jubilant on this great occasion, but all he wanted to do was weep.
Berkhamsted, 1163
It was Christmas Eve, and the Yule log had just been dragged into the great hall by several beefy serfs, while the castle servants were busily picking out the best branches from the great piles of evergreens strewn across the floor; these would be used to decorate the hall. The younger royal children scampered among them, full of excitement, eager not to miss out on the festive fun. They had already been shooed out of the kitchens, where the Christmas brawn was seething in its pan, and great joints of meat were roasting over the spits.
Upstairs, the King was bursting into the Queen’s bower with his usual lack of ceremony. He wore a look of triumph.
“He has submitted!” he announced without preamble. “He has sworn to uphold the ancient customs of England—without qualification!”
Eleanor stood up, laid down the rose silk bliautshe was embroidering as a gift for young Matilda, and smiled.
“I think we have Bishop Foliot to thank for that,” she said. Henry had cunningly translated Foliot to the important See of London, so that he would be on hand to advise his king and lead the opposition to Becket. One by one, persuaded by Foliot’s eloquent arguments, the bishops had gone over to Henry.
“And the Pope!” the King cried jubilantly. “Don’t forget Alexander needs my support. He ordered Thomas to submit, and told him he could expect no help from Rome if he did not. So Becket is defeated on all sides. Eleanor, this is the best Yuletide gift I could have received!”
Eleanor twined her arms around his neck; these days, they were not so openly demonstrative toward each other as they once had been, but she was so pleased to see Henry’s face lit up by his victory that she could not help herself. She knew he was reluctant to display his inner hurts to her nowadays, yet he would not despise her sharing his victory. But although he briefly returned the embrace, he soon disentangled himself and went to warm his hands by the fire. They were rougher than ever now, scabbed and callused from hours spent in the saddle, gripping worn leather reins.
He stood with his back to her. She could not—thank God!—know that he had just come from the arms of Rohese, that Thomas’s messenger had encountered him as he’d left her chamber. He had been too spent to respond to Eleanor, too focused on Thomas’s submission.
He turned around.
“Thomas showed good taste when he did up this place,” he said slowly, looking at the rich hues of the expensive hangings, the decorated floor tiles, the painted and gilded furniture, and the delicate ironwork on the window bars and the fire screen. Eleanor agreed with him. She too had been conscious of the all-pervading, unseen presence of Becket in this castle, once bestowed so lovingly, which Henry had taken from him. Was there no escape from the man? She feared she would scream if she heard the name Thomas Becket again. He dominated their lives to an unacceptable extent. If only Henry had not been so besotted, was not still obsessed! She bit down the need to lash out verbally.
He was looking at her—a touch shiftily, she felt. Was he embarrassed by his obsession with Becket? Had it occurred to Henry that he ought to draw a line under this finished friendship, that it was unfair to her to prolong the agony any further? Evidently not, for when he spoke again, it became clear that his mind could focus on only one thing—or one person, to be more exact.
“Of course, I only have Thomas’s promise privately, in a letter,” Henry said. “He must submit publicly to my authority.”
“Is that wise?” Eleanor asked, taking up her embroidery again. “He must feel he has been humiliated enough.”
“It is necessary,” Henry said coldly. “He must be seen to submit, then my bishops will know without a doubt where their allegiance should lie.”
“I am sure you know best,” Eleanor said sourly, unable to help herself. Let be! Let be! she was crying inwardly.
Henry came to stand in front of her, looking down sardonically.
“Oh, I do,” he said softly. “And I hope you will be there to see it happen.”
“You may count on that,” she replied briskly. “And now, let us think of our children, and our guests, and do all honor to this season of Christ’s birth.” And put Becket out of your mind. Those words lay unsaid, like a sword between them.
Clarendon, 1164