There was a stunned hush. No one dared speak. Clearly, no one knew how to respond.
“Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?” Henry shouted, then sat down heavily and slumped with his head in his hands, his shoulders heaving as, all around him, people looked at one another helplessly.
Eleanor was up on her feet in an instant, folding her arms around Henry, all other considerations set aside in her desire to alleviate his pain. So engrossed was she in her efforts to console him that, like many others present at that fateful feast, she did not espy four stalwart knights slipping away from the hall, their faces alight with purpose, their hands grasping their sword hilts.
Henry came to her bed that night, for the first time in almost five years. He came for comfort, rather than for sex, although he would have died before admitting it. And she, knowing his need, welcomed him back, and they were gentle with each other, embracing tightly, not having to say anything. It felt strange—and unexpectedly delightful—to have Henry in her arms again. For this feeling she was ready to forgive him anything. She was deeply moved that at this moment of crisis he had turned to her before all others. And so, when the need for comfort translated itself into the need for something deeper, and he moved toward her in the old familiar way, and entered her, she felt only joy, and a beautiful inner peace that made her want to weep.
Their lovemaking was not the explosion of lust and fire it had once been—that was long ago, and they were both, quite obviously, older now—but it was gloriously satisfying, and her climax, when it eventually came—for she was quite out of practice, she thought ruefully—was shattering. It was as if all the pent-up desire of the barren, loveless years had been released in one go.
When the waves of pleasure had ebbed away, Eleanor lay quiet with Henry’s arm about her, thinking that the long separation had allowed time for her wounds to heal and for many matters to be put in perspective. The old saw about absence making the heart grow fonder was very apposite, she realized. And the sensual meeting of two skins between the sheets was sweetly conducive to full reconciliation. Rosamund or no Rosamund, if Henry wanted her, she was ready to go back to him.
But when at length Henry spoke to her, it was not about any future they might have together. “Eleanor, something is troubling me. Just before I left the hall, the steward told me that four of my knights had left the castle not long before. He thought it strange that they should go abroad so late on Christmas night.”
“Do you know who they were?” Eleanor asked.
“Yes. William de Tracy, who was once Becket’s chancellor; Reginald FitzUrse, Richard de Brito, and Hugh de Morville. Hugh’s done good work as my justice in the north of England. From what I could make out, they left just after …” Henry’s voice tailed off. He could not find words to describe his fit of rage.
Eleanor was suddenly suffused with alarm. She sat up abruptly.
“Oh, no! I hope to God they have not taken you literally at your word!”
“At my word?” Henry raised himself on an elbow.
“You do not remember? You asked for someone to rid you of Becket! You called him a turbulent priest.”
Henry leaped out of bed and reached for his robe. “I must summon the knights back!” he cried, and was out of the door before he had barely covered his modesty, shouting to his guards. But it was too late. The four knights were long gone.
Eleanor spent the next two days with dread in her heart. Henry was convinced that his unthinking outburst was going to have disastrous consequences, and privately she shared his foreboding. But her words were all of reassurance.
“My lord, you have sent men after them, so rest easy. And surely no man would even contemplate committing violence on the Archbishop of Canterbury?”
Henry turned frightened eyes to her. “They heard me denigrate his office. They might well be convinced that his removal would put an end to this interminable quarrel, and actually serve the Church’s interests.”
“I hardly think they will go that far,” Eleanor reasoned, with more confidence than she felt. “Mayhap they have gone to tell Becket a few home truths and frighten him into submission. After all, the Pope must support you; Becket cannot win. He is done for, this time.”
“Done for indeed, I fear,” Henry muttered. His face was shadowed with foreboding.
Argentan, 1171
Unable to bear the tension, the King abandoned the Yuletide festivities, dismissed his guests, and left with the Queen for Argentan. It was there that Brother Peter, a young monk from England, mud-spattered and exhausted from a hard ride, found him, just as he and Eleanor were entertaining Bishop Arnulf of Lisieux to supper in their private solar.
“Lord King,” the monk gasped, falling to his knees for sheer weariness. “I bring terrible news.”
Henry went white and clenched his knuckles. The bishop leaped up, scraping back his chair.
“What news?” Eleanor asked sharply.
“My lady, Archbishop Becket has been murdered, slain in his own cathedral two days ago, as he celebrated Vespers.”
Eleanor was momentarily speechless, unable to take in the enormity of what she had just heard. “Murdered?” she repeated stupidly. “The Archbishop of Canterbury?”
“He was cruelly slain by four of the King’s knights,” Brother Peter said, himself deeply distressed.
“Oh, God!” Henry wailed suddenly, beating his breast. “Thomas, my Thomas! May God forgive me—this is my doing. I have killed him, as surely as if I strangled him with my own hands.” Tears were streaming down his face and great sobs racking his stocky frame.
“May God avenge him,” the bishop murmured, crossing himself, appalled to the very core. “This is surely the worst atrocity I have ever heard of. It is unbelievable that anyone should commit such sacrilege as to slay an archbishop in the house of God.”
Henry turned a ravaged face to him. “It was done for me, at my behest. I am to blame. But as God is my witness, I lovedThomas, in spite of our quarrel. I spoke those words in anger. I did not mean them to be taken literally. I loved him!” His words were coming between short breaths; he was almost too paralyzed by shock to say more, and the bishop was staring at him, not quite comprehending what he was talking about. Eleanor went swiftly to Henry and would have comforted him, but he turned his back on her. “No—I am not worthy of consolation,” he wept bitterly. “Leave me to my terrible grief.”
She felt a pang of anguish at being rejected but thrust it away, realizing that Henry needed time to come to terms with what had happened. This was a matter for his confessor, not his wife, although in time he might come to confide in her. For now, she turned her attention to the poor, shivering monk, and herself poured him a goblet of wine. She also handed one to the weeping bishop, who gulped it back gratefully, then she offered another to Henry, but he was too distraught to notice.
“Now,” she said to Brother Peter, “please sit down and tell us everything that has happened.”
The young man did as he was bid, and piece by piece the whole tragic story came out. How Becket had gone back to England and, after all his fair words, defiantly excommunicated those bishops who had taken part in the coronation of the Young King. How the four knights turned up at Canterbury and threatened the Archbishop with dire punishment if he did not immediately leave the kingdom. How Becket calmly told them to stop their threats, as he was not going anywhere, and sent them away.