Sometimes it astonished Eleanor to remember that she’d actually endured fifteen years as France’s bored, unhappy queen. “But you may be sure I was the one blamed for those barren harvests,” she said, with a twisted smile. “As if I could cultivate soil without seed!”
“Does that truly surprise you? Women have been taking the blame ever since Eve listened to that fork- tongued serpent, who most assuredly was male!” Maud turned then toward the door, smiling. “To judge by the commotion outside, either we are under siege or Harry has just arrived.”
Somewhere along the way from the castle, Henry had found a garden to raid, for he was carrying an armful of Michaelmas daisies. These he handed to Petronilla, rather sheepishly, for romantic gestures did not come easily to him. Crossing the chamber in several quick strides, he leaned over the bed to give his wife a kiss that roused a wistful sort of envy in both widows, for Petronilla had been blessed with a happy marriage of her own and Maud had been denied one.
“Are you hurting, love?”
Eleanor’s smile was tired, but happy. “Not at all,” she lied. “By now the babes just pop right out, like a cork from a bottle.”
Henry laughed. “Well… where is the little cork?”
A wet-nurse came forward from the shadows, bobbing a shy curtsy before holding out a swaddled form for his inspection. Henry touched the ringlets of reddish-gold hair, the exact shade as his own, and grinned when the baby’s hand closed around his finger. “Look at the size of him,” he marveled, and as his eyes met Eleanor’s, the same thought was in both their minds: heartfelt relief that God had given them such a robust, sturdy son. No parent who’d lost a child could ever take health or survival for granted again.
“We still have not decided what to name him,” Henry reminded his wife. “I fancy Geoffrey, after my father.”
“The next one,” she promised. “I have a name already in mind for this little lad.”
He cocked a brow. “Need I mention that it is unseemly to name a child after a former husband?”
Eleanor’s lashes were drooping and her smile turned into a sleepy yawn. “I would not name a stray dog after Louis,” she declared, holding out her arms for her new baby. She was surprised by the intensity of emotion she felt as she gazed down into that small, flushed face. Why was this son so special? Had God sent him to fill the aching void left by Will’s death? “I want,” she said, “to name him Richard.”
CHAPTER FIVE
May 1158
London, England
Thomas Becket was celebrated for his hospitality; his great hall was filled at most hours with knights, petitioners, barons, and clerks. He spent such large sums on candles, rushlights, and torches that men joked night was the one unwelcome guest. His servants swept up and changed the floor rushes on a daily basis, sweet-smelling hay in winter and fragrant herbs in summer. His agents ranged far and wide, procuring the finest wines and spices for his buttery and kitchen, and his tables gleamed with gold and silver plate. Men came from foreign courts to meet with England’s king, but they hoped to dine with England’s chancellor.
Becket’s Ascension Day feast for the Archbishop of Canterbury was lavish even by the chancellor’s bountiful standards. The tables were draped in linen cloths whiter than milk, the washing lavers were scented with rosemary, and the rich fare included capon, heron, venison, pike, cream of almonds, custard, and angel wafers, all washed down with varied wines and spiced hippocras and sweet malmsey. If any of the guests saw the irony in providing such a banquet for the unassuming, ascetic Theobald, none commented upon it.
Seated at a side table, one of the clerks of the chancellory, William Fitz Stephen, was exchanging discreet gossip with John of Salisbury, Archbishop Theobald’s secretary. The dinner was clearly a great success. Yet Fitz Stephen had been hearing an undercurrent of disapproval directed at their host. It was no secret that the archbishop was deeply disappointed in his protege. Theobald had recommended Becket as chancellor in the belief that he would be a strong advocate of the rights of the Church. Instead, Becket had become the king’s man in word and deed. Although the archbishop retained his fondness for his former clerk, some in his inner circle were bitter at what they saw as Becket’s defection to the Crown, and they were not loath to criticize the chancellor even while enjoying his hospitality.
Fitz Stephen was disdainful of these disingenuous critics, for he scorned hypocrites and his loyalty to the chancellor was wholehearted. But because John of Salisbury’s own friendship with Thomas Becket dated back to their years together in the archbishop’s service, Fitz Stephen did not feel he had to be on his guard with John. And so when John made passing mention of the Bishop of Chichester’s failed case against Battle Abbey, Fitz Stephen did not become defensive, as he might have done with others in Theobald’s household. He contented himself by merely reminding John that even the archbishop had disapproved of Chichester’s perjured denials.
“Chichester has less backbone than a conger eel,” John said scornfully. “His panic notwithstanding, the underpinnings of his argument remain sound. It sets a poor precedent to exempt an abbey from episcopal jurisdiction, and I’d not be surprised if this comes back to haunt us. Already the king is showing undue interest in the Scarborough case.”
Fitz Stephen was familiar with this particular case. When the king had been in York in January, a Scarborough citizen had petitioned him for justice, contending that a local dean had extorted money from him by falsely accusing the man’s wife of adultery and then demanding a payment to withdraw the calumny. Henry had wanted the dean charged and had been enraged when the Treasurer of York insisted the king could not punish the dean because he was in holy orders and thus subject only to Church discipline.
Fitz Stephen sighed, for like his master, Thomas Becket, he was both an officer of the Crown owing loyalty to the king and a subdeacon owing loyalty to the Church. He sometimes felt like one of those rope dancers who entertained at fairs, balancing upon a tautly drawn cord high above the ground, knowing that a single misstep could result in a nasty fall.
“I agree that we do not want the Crown intruding into the Church’s domains,” he said quietly. “But the complaints about lawless clerics are too often justified, as with that Scarborough dean using his position in the Church for extortion. If we took better care to discipline our own, people would not be coming to the king with their woes and he’d have no opportunity to meddle in matters best left to ecclesiastical courts.”
John, too, deplored the way unscrupulous men could plead their clergy to elude punishment for crimes against the king’s peace. But when he weighed the evils, his fear that the Crown might erode Church liberties was far stronger than his reluctance to see guilty clerics escape a temporal reckoning.
Just then a commotion erupted outside, loud enough to swivel all heads toward the unshuttered windows. Two servants were hurrying to fling open the doors. John looked baffled, but Fitz Stephen was grinning, for this was a familiar occurrence in the chancellor’s household. They were about to have a royal visitor.
As the doors swung back, the noise intensified, male voices nearly drowned out by the baying of hounds. Much to John’s astonishment, a horse and rider appeared in the doorway, hooves striking sparks against the flagstones. Maneuvering the stallion with ease, Henry guided it over the threshold and into the hall. He was clad in a sweat-stained green tunic, a soft, stalked cap, knee-high cowhide boots, a quiver slung over his shoulder, a bow carried casually in one hand, and his face was streaked with dirt, his eyes unreadable in the blinding, bright sunlight streaming into the hall behind him.
“Another feast, my lord chancellor? My invitation must have gone astray.”
John of Salisbury gasped. It was not so long ago that he’d been in severe disfavor with the king, relying upon his friendship with Thomas Becket to appease Henry’s anger. He was alarmed now to think that Becket might have drawn that very same anger down upon himself, and he reached out, his hand closing around Fitz Stephen’s wrist in an instinctive bid for reassurance.
Fitz Stephen did not share his anxiety. Nor did the target of Henry’s pointed query. Thomas Becket was regarding his king with complete composure. “Had I invited you, my liege, you’d have been compelled to pass the afternoon on a cushioned seat, dining on pike in doucette and Galantine pie. As it was, you were able to eat on horseback, washing down strips of dried beef with English ale.”
