December 1170
Canterbury, England
William Fitz Stephen was seated at a table in the great hall, drafting a letter to the Archbishop of Sens. Once it was done, he would take it to the archbishop and if it met with his approval, it would then be turned over to a scribe who would make a final copy. Fitz Stephen was a gifted Latinist, far better than Becket, and it pleased him greatly to put his skills at the service of his lord. He was so intent upon his task that he did not look up until his name was called close at hand.
Edward Grim was standing by the table with two full cups. “I thought you might like a cider.”
Fitz Stephen was agreeable to a work break, and after carefully putting aside his parchment, quill pen, inkhorn, and pumice stone, he made room at the table for his new friend. Edward Grim had been at Canterbury only a few days. Like many visitors to the archbishop, he was a supplicant, bearing a letter of recommendation from Arnulf, Bishop of Lisieux. A testimonial by Arnulf was suspect in some quarters, given his reputation for slyness and his closeness to the king, and Grim had been treated with coolness by several of the archbishop’s clerks. But Becket had received him cordially, and Fitz Stephen thought that he had a good chance of getting the archbishop’s help. He’d been given the benefice of Saltwood Church by the Abbot of Bec, only to be forcibly ejected by the de Brocs, and by aiding him to regain his office, Becket would accomplish two benefits: righting a wrong while injuring his foes. When Grim asked now about his prospects, Fitz Stephen was able to offer him honest encouragement.
“Your grievance is one that needs redressing and I think Lord Thomas will decide to uphold your claim to the benefice at Saltwood. But I would not want to make less of the difficulties you’ll be facing. The de Brocs are likely to maintain their greedy grasp upon Kent until the king himself comes over to evict them.”
Grim nodded morosely, and the same thought was in both their minds: the latest offense by Robert de Broc, the apostate monk. On Christmas Eve, he’d stopped a servant of the archbishop’s delivering supplies to the priory kitchens, and cut off the tail of the man’s packmare. Fitz Stephen did not doubt that he’d then gone back to Saltwood Castle to brag of his deed, for that sort of alehouse humor was sure to win favor among the riffraff followers of his uncle, Rannulph de Broc. These were men who deserved the utmost contempt, but they were dangerous, too, and one forgot that at his peril.
He said as much to Grim, who nodded again in bleak agreement and then asked him about the tension he’d observed between the archbishop and Odo, the Christ Church prior.
“The last prior died during Lord Thomas’s exile and the monks chose Odo to succeed him. But my lord does not recognize his election and plans to replace him with his own choice.”
“Ah… I see.” Edward Grim tactfully asked no more questions, thinking that this conflict between Lord Thomas and Prior Odo explained much. He’d been baffled by the obvious undercurrents at the priory, by the silent, smoldering resentment that existed between the archbishop and some of his own monks.
“Will?” Alexander Llewelyn was coming toward them, and after one look at the Welshman’s somber expression, Grim rose and politely excused himself. Straddling the bench vacated by the young priest, Alexander gestured toward Fitz Stephen’s half-finished letter. “Is that the one I’m to take?”
Fitz Stephen nodded and then glanced across the hall, where Herbert of Bosham was standing by the open hearth. His eyes glassy, his face feverishly flushed, he looked so wretched that Fitz Stephen felt a twinge of pity. Alexander was hiding his distress better than Herbert, but Fitz Stephen knew him well enough to discern his inner turmoil. By now all in the religious community knew that Lord Thomas was sending Herbert and Alexander to consult with the French king and the Archbishop of Sens, and all knew, too, that both men were obeying with extreme reluctance, loath to leave their lord in the midst of his enemies.
Trying to offer some comfort, Fitz Stephen observed that Alexander could be thankful, at least, that he’d not been the one chosen to visit the papal court, for he’d be able to return from France within a fortnight if luck and good winds were with him. Alexander did not seem much heartened by that. Absentmindedly helping himself to Fitz Stephen’s cider, he stared down into the cup as if it were a wishing well. “Listen,” he said after a long, brooding silence, “I want you to stay close to Lord Thomas whilst I am gone. I fear he is making a grave mistake to send Herbert and me and the others away. I have a bad feeling about all this, Will…”
Fitz Stephen would normally have joked about his friend’s Welsh second-sight. Instead, he said earnestly, “You must not let your fears run loose, Sander. Keep them tightly reined in, for your own sake. None would dare harm an archbishop, not even the Devil’s leavings like the de Brocs.”
Alexander’s mouth twitched down. “We both know better than that. But I am worrying about more than those Saltwood vipers. It is Lord Thomas’s state of mind that gives me concern, too. After the Christmas Mass, he spoke to me of the martyred archbishop, St Alphege, and said there would soon be another.”
Fitz Stephen blinked, and then said hastily, “He had just condemned men to eternal damnation. Is it so surprising that his mood would be low at that moment?”
Alexander muttered something which Fitz Stephen assumed to be a Welsh oath. “Lord Thomas’s anger does not drain him. If anything, it sustains him. But even if you were right, that does not explain what I overheard him say to the Bishop of Paris when he came to bid the French king farewell.”
Fitz Stephen did not want to ask, suddenly sure that he did not want to know. He said nothing, watching uneasily as Alexander set the cup down too forcefully, splattering cider onto his sleeve, the table, and even the sheets of blank parchment.
“You know that the French king advised him not to leave France without obtaining the Kiss of Peace from King Henry. The Bishop of Paris was of the same mind and sought to convince him to wait until his safety was assured.” Alexander’s eyes were shining with unshed tears. “Lord Thomas… he told the bishop that he was returning to England to die.”
Henry held his Christmas court that year at his hunting lodge of Bures, near Bayeux in Normandy. Any hopes he and his family had of enjoying the holiday were dashed a few days before Christmas by the arrival of a courier bearing the news of the censure of the Archbishop of York and the Bishops of London and Salisbury.
Eleanor was surveying the great hall at Bures with poorly concealed dissatisfaction, wondering if she’d go stark raving mad before she was able to return to Poitiers. Never had a Christmas court been so bleak, so boring, so utterly endless. Nothing had gone right so far. The accommodations were cramped and modest and not at all to her liking. She had been assured that the lodge at Bures was quite acceptable. She should have known better than to believe Harry. When he was hunting, he’d be perfectly happy to shelter in a cotter’s hut.
There was not even room enough for the royal family and their attendants and servants, much less adequate space for Henry’s barons and bishops and the inevitable petitioners trailing after the king in hopes of gaining an audience. Eleanor’s children had been quick to take advantage of the chaos. Richard and Geoffrey were soon disappearing from dawn till dark, up to mischief she’d prefer not to know about. Nine-year-old Aenor, betrothed that year to the twelve-year-old King Alfonso of Castile, was no trouble at all, though, so docile and well behaved that Eleanor could only marvel this placid child could have come from her own womb. Joanna was the daughter most like her mother; as Eleanor watched now, she was running about the hall like a small, lively whirlwind, playing a game of hunt-the-fox with the little brother she rarely saw, four-year-old John.
Eleanor had been surprised by Henry’s wish to bring John from Fontevrault Abbey for their Christmas court. When he’d mentioned that all of their children would be with them except for Hal in England and Tilda in Germany, she’d not even thought of John, destined for the Church. But here he was-dark, slight, silent-so different from the other sons she’d borne that it was difficult to remember he was hers.
She supposed she ought to collect Joanna and John before they did something to vex her husband. It would not take much, God knows. Ever since he’d learned of Becket’s Advent excommunications, his temper had been like a smoldering torch, ready to flare up at the slightest breath of wind. Before she could act upon that decision, she saw her uncle making his way toward her. Raoul’s presence at the Christmas court had surprised many, for the mutual animosity between him and Henry was well known. But he had done the king a great service in negotiating Aenor’s marriage to the young king of Castile. Only Eleanor knew that he’d acted at her behest.
“Well?” he asked. “Has the king decided where he goes from Bures? Any truth to the talk that it might be St Valery?”
Although they were speaking in their native Provencal to thwart eavesdroppers, Raoul was taking the added precaution of employing code. Eleanor smiled thinly, acknowledging his joke: that her husband would be heading for
