transept where they carefully scooped up as much of the blood as they could, some of it undoubtedly Edward Grim’s. The broken blade of Richard le Bret’s sword was recovered and put aside with the archbishop’s bloodied clothing, to be cherished as holy relics, and many no longer mourned, rejoicing instead that their lord had died for God and Holy Church, martyr to the True Faith.
The following day, Becket’s body was hastily buried in the cathedral crypt after the monks were threatened by Robert de Broc, who vowed that he would drag the corpse behind his horse to the nearest cesspit. The church had been polluted by the shedding of blood so there could be no funeral Mass. The archbishop was dressed in his hair shirt and the vestments he’d worn at his investiture eight years before. He was not washed, as he had already been washed in his own blood. The first miracle occurred three days later, when a woman stricken with palsy was reported to have been cured after drinking water sprinkled with a few drops of Becket’s blood.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
January 1171
Argentan, Normandy
The Archbishop of Rouen had been summoned to the king’s solar for further discussions about the looming confrontation with the Archbishop of Canterbury, but he was still lingering in the great hall, not at all eager to jump back into that particular fire. Henry’s combustible temper had even more fuel to feed upon; yesterday he’d learned of Becket’s Christmas Day excommunications. The archbishop had long harbored a secret apprehension that this clash between two such stubborn, strong-willed men could not possibly end well, although he’d struggled to ignore his doubts and do whatever he could to make their peace a permanent one. But the peace had not even lasted through Christmastide, and he was grimly certain that far worse was to come.
Getting reluctantly to his feet, he was adjusting his surplice when his attention was drawn by a new arrival to the hall. Waiting for the Bishop of Lisieux to join him, he said wryly, “You’re just in time, Arnulf, to enter the Valley of Death with me.”
Getting no response, he subjected Arnulf to a closer scrutiny and felt a sudden chill, for the bishop was the color of curdled milk. What news could have so unnerved a man as worldly and urbane as Arnulf of Lisieux?
They huddled in the stairway by the solar door, Arnulf and Rotrou of Rouen and a travel-stained, disheveled young courier too fatigued for fear. Arnulf at last reached for the latch, mouthing the cry of the crusaders, “Deus vult,” in an attempt at sardonic bravado that rang hollow even to his own ears.
The solar was crowded, well lit by flaring torches. Henry was standing in the center of the chamber, listening to several men at once. When the door opened and the two prelates entered, he greeted them with a scowl and sarcasm. “How kind of you to belatedly honor us with your presence, my lords.”
Arnulf, as skilled as any diplomat in the arts of discretion and circumspection, could not believe that he had volunteered for such a thankless task as this. Balking at the very edge of the cliff, he decided to throw the hapless messenger into the void and beckoned the young man forward. “My liege, this is Lucas, whose lord is Hugh de Gundeville. He has come from Canterbury with grievous news for you.”
Lucas stumbled and sank to his knees before Henry. “My lord king, the Archbishop of Canterbury is dead.”
“What?” Henry stared at the man as if the words had no meaning. The blank look on his face was one Arnulf had seen before, a moment of desperate denial before the Apocalypse.
“The young king sent my lord Hugh to Canterbury. We got there on Wednesday morn, after the murder was done.”
Lucas paused, waiting politely for his lord’s response. When there was none, he made the sign of the cross, saying softly, “The archbishop was slain Tuesday eve at Vespers.” Remembering, then, the letter he’d almost forgotten in his exhaustion, he held it out.
Henry took the letter, but he made no attempt to read it. His fingers tightened around the parchment roll, as if of their own volition. He looked at the horror-struck faces of the men encircling him, saying nothing. And before any of them could speak, he’d turned away and was gone, the door closing quietly behind him.
When Henry ’s son, the young king, was told of the archbishop’s murder, he exclaimed aloud, “Alas! But God, I give Thee thanks that this was done without my knowledge and that none of my people were involved.”
They were waiting in a private chamber in Eleanor’s palace at Poitiers. They had gathered to consult with their duchess about the latest crisis threatening to engulf the Angevin empire. They’d just begun, though, when Eleanor was called away. She’d not been gone long, but the delay was eroding their patience. They were experienced enough to know that she’d not have interrupted the council for a routine message.
When she finally returned, it was to a sudden silence. Her face was expressionless, and to these men who knew her so well, the appearance of her inscrutable court mask was as sure a sign of a coming storm as northeast winds and a haloed moon. She paused for a long moment in the doorway and then strode into the chamber, head high and eyes guarded and opaque. The men were watching her, so only Raoul noticed as her son slipped inconspicuously in behind her and took up position in the shadows. He was not about to give the boy away though, believing that if Richard was old enough to sneak in, he was old enough to hear.
“I’ve just received word from Argentan,” Eleanor said without preamble. “Thomas Becket was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral on the morrow after Holy Innocents’ Day.”
Even the most irreverent of her lords could not suppress a shiver, for there were few crimes more sacrilegious than the killing of an archbishop in his own church. Once the initial shock passed, not all were displeased by the news. No one had yet asked the fateful question, but in a sense, it was not even necessary. Whether Becket had died at the English king’s connivance or not, the blame would still be laid at Henry’s throne.
“The killers were four English knights, some of whom may be known to you,” Eleanor said dispassionately, “Hugh de Morville, William de Tracy, Reginald Fitz Urse, and Richard le Bret. The de Brocs were involved, too, although they apparently took no role in the actual slaying. They claimed that they were doing the king’s bidding. That is not true.”
They already knew that was so, for she’d reported that her husband’s decision at Bures had been to demand that Becket absolve the English bishops or face arrest. A few speculated whether an assassination order might have been given without her knowledge, but none were foolhardy enough to suggest that. It was left to her trusted confidant and seneschal, Saldebreuil de Sanzay, to give voice to the other truth, the obvious truth.
“I do not doubt that, Madame,” he said. “But it may not matter. Lord Henry’s enemies will care only that a weapon of incomparable sharpness has been delivered into their hands.”
“I know,” she acknowledged, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed her frustration and dismay to show. “What monumental, unforgivable folly…”
It was then that Richard emerged from hiding. Eleanor stiffened at the sight of her son, but she did not send him away; it was too late for that. Richard had experienced a growth spurt that autumn and it was a minor surprise to realize that his eyes were level with her own, that it was like looking into her husband’s eyes, clear and sea-grey and impenetrable.
“Will men blame my father for this killing?”
Eleanor was not going to lie to him, not to Richard. “Yes,” she said, “I fear that they will,” and he nodded, apparently satisfied by her candor. What he thought about Becket’s murder, she did not know, would not know unless he chose to tell her.
Raoul dared then to pose the question that many of them were wondering. It had not escaped him that she’d been ambiguous about the source of her information. He suspected that if she’d heard of the murder from Henry himself, she would have said so, which meant that the rumors of marital strife were becoming more and more credible. Nothing could please him more, but he took care to keep his voice perfectly neutral as he asked, “My lady… will you go to the king at Argentan?”
