“Thomas Becket can indeed take holy vows, as you say. Nor would I deny that he has been endowed by Our Creator with great gifts. But I do not believe he has a prelate’s temperament. He is a worldly man, urbane and pleasure-loving. He has a liking for fine wines and good food, for hunting and hawking, for well-bred horses and furred mantles and silken tunics. And as Archdeacon of Canterbury, he has neglected his spiritual duties shamefully. Keep him as your chancellor, Henry, for he is well suited to that role.”
“Are you saying there have never been luxury-loving prelates? Remind my mother, Eleanor, about the French king’s most revered adviser. When did Abbot Suger ever deprive himself of a soft feather bed or a roasted partridge?”
“The good abbot did have a liking for his comforts,” Eleanor conceded reluctantly. She was not happy with the direction the conversation had taken, for she did not share Maude’s qualms about Becket’s high living. Her objections to the man were more visceral and less easily articulated. She neither liked nor trusted him and begrudged his role as her husband’s most trusted confidant. Taking another tack, she said, “I do not understand, Harry, why you are so willing to dispense with Becket’s services. Where will you find another chancellor of his capabilities?”
“I have no intention of losing my chancellor. I shall seek a dispensation from the Pope allowing Thomas to act in both capacities. Why not? Louis’s chancellor, de Champfleury, did not resign his post after being elected to the bishopric of Soissons. And the chancellor of the Holy Roman Emperor is also the Archbishop of Cologne. Once we find a reliable deputy chancellor, I see no reason why Thomas cannot serve both me and the Almighty.”
Henry smiled at that, but neither woman did.
“But what if the Crown’s needs and the Church’s needs should diverge? What then, Harry?”
He shrugged. “I am sure accommodations can be reached. Even his enemies would not deny that Thomas is a skilled diplomat. And I have no intention of warring with the Church as Stephen so foolishly did. I will be quite content to keep papal interference to a minimum and to reform some of the worst abuses of the ecclesiastical courts. Who knows my mind in these matters better than Thomas? So who would be better qualified to carry them out?”
Eleanor was not sure how to respond, for his trust in Becket was boundless and hers was meager. “Even the most skilled jongleur can keep only so many balls aloft without dropping one. You may be asking too much of Becket.”
“I agree with Eleanor,” Maude said somberly. “The other examples you cited-in France and Germany-are not quite the same, Henry. The Archbishop of Canterbury is the spiritual head of the English Church. That is a great blessing and a great burden, too. I truly believe that Gilbert Foliot would be a far better choice, and I urge you to reconsider.”
Henry was irritated that they both seemed unable to see as clearly as he did. “I am looking for more than an archbishop. I am seeking an ally, too, and who better for that than Thomas? If I can trust him with my son and heir, why should I not trust him with Canterbury’s holy see?”
Eleanor’s hands clasped in her lap, tightly enough for her rings to pinch her fingers. Henry had recently decided to place Hal in Becket’s keeping, for he was just days from his seventh birthday, too old to remain with his mother. She’d agreed that it was time for their son to begin his formal education, and Becket had been the logical choice. It irked her, nonetheless, to hear Becket call Hal his “adopted son,” and her earlier compliance now came back to haunt her. “If we are unhappy with Becket’s tutelage of our son, we can reclaim him. But what could you do if you become dissatisfied with your new archbishop?”
An old memory surfaced for Maude, buried in the back of her brain for more than fifty years. “When I was wed to the Holy Roman Emperor, Heinrich rewarded his chancellor with the archbishopric of Reims, and the result was a grievous disappointment. Adalbert had been tireless in defending the Crown’s prerogatives, but once he became an archbishop, he changed almost overnight, began to argue for radical reforms and sided with my husband’s adversaries.”
Eleanor gave her mother-in-law a grateful smile, but Henry was not impressed. “Obviously, Heinrich did not know Adalbert as well as he thought. But for seven years, I have been closer to Thomas than to my own brother. I have looked into his heart, seen into his soul. We have worked well together in the past and I do not doubt we can continue to do so in the future.”
Conceding defeat, at least for the time being, Eleanor got slowly to her feet. “It has begun to snow again, and I think we all need to thaw out by the fire. Will you put off a final decision on this, Harry? With so much at stake, you want to be utterly sure you’ve made the right choice. I urge you to think upon it for a while longer.”
Maude added her voice to Eleanor’s, and Henry agreed that he would ponder further upon the matter. But they could take little comfort from his assurance, for they well knew that once he made up his mind, he did not often change it.
Falaise was awash in white-gold sunlight. From the castle’s solar, Henry gazed out upon a cloudless sky, as bright as the April blue-bells lining the banks of the River Ante. Below in the gardens, his eldest son was romping with Eleanor’s greyhounds. Becket had brought Hal to Falaise to bid farewell to his parents, and then they would depart for London, where the barons were to swear a solemn oath of fealty to the boy, acknowledging him as the future King of England. Henry watched his son’s antics with a smile, and then turned back to his chancellor.
“If the weather holds, you should have a smooth Channel crossing, Thomas.”
“God Willing. We’ll depart for Barfleur on the morrow if that meets with your approval?”
Henry nodded. “Eleanor and I know our lad will be in good hands. Now I think it is time we talked of an English see that has been vacant too long.” He was sure that what he was about to say would come as no surprise to Becket, for rumors had been circulating about his intentions for several months, fueled by his recent consultation with England’s most senior bishops. “I am sending my justiciar back with you to England, Thomas. I have instructed him to advise the monks of Christ Church, Canterbury, that I would be greatly pleased if they elect you as their archbishop and greatly displeased if they do not.”
Becket’s smile was self-deprecating, rings glittering on his fingers as he gestured to his finely woven, fashionable tunic and buckled shoes. “And a right saintly archbishop I’d make, would I not?”
“You can switch to sackcloth and ashes if you like,” Henry joked. “In fact, that might be one way to impress the monks. For whilst your election is a foregone conclusion, in all honesty, you’ll not be a popular choice. When I talked to the English bishops about this, they were rather underwhelmed.” Tactfully neglecting to mention that his own wife and mother were among Becket’s opponents, he said, “You need to know this, Thomas, for you will have to prove yourself to many skeptics. I can make you an archbishop. What you do with it, though, will be up to you.”
Becket was no longer smiling. “And did it not trouble you, Harry, that none shared your enthusiasm for elevating me to Canterbury’s Holy See? Did you never think that they could be right?”
“No, I did not. Shall I tell you why? Because I know you better than they do, plain and simple.” Henry straddled a chair, grey eyes puzzled, probing. “What is the matter, Thomas? Clearly you have misgivings… why? And do not tell me you are overwhelmed by the high honor or such blather. You have your virtues, but modesty is not amongst them. So what makes you so wary?”
“I value our friendship, Harry. I would not want to put it at risk.”
“Nor would I. But why should this jeopardize it? Yes, circumstances will change. What of it? As well as we know each other, what surprises are there likely to be?”
“I wish I shared your certainty. It is that… that I do not think you have foreseen the possible consequences.” Becket’s slight stammer was much more pronounced now, an unmistakable sign of tension. “Are you so sure that I can serve both you and the Almighty?”
Henry stared at him and then laughed shortly, amusement warring with exasperation. “I can assure you that I do not see God as a rival. That prideful I am not! If those are your qualms, you can lay them aside. The Almighty and I will not be in contention for your immortal soul.”
Becket’s smile was a polite flicker, and Henry’s patience ran out. “Jesu, Thomas, I am offering you the archbishopric of Canterbury, the greatest plum in Christendom! I did not think I’d have to talk you into it. So you’d best tell me now if you’re crazed enough to refuse.”
Becket smiled more convincingly this time. “When you do put it that way…”
Henry studied the older man and then nodded in satisfaction. “So it is settled then.”
“Yes,” Becket agreed, “it is settled.”
