Henry had been outraged by these mild punishments, and he demanded that clerks convicted of serious crimes in an ecclesiastical court should then be stripped of the Church’s protection and handed over to his courts for sentencing. Roger still remembered the litany of horrific crimes Henry had assembled to bolster his argument: more than one hundred murders committed by clerics in the eight years since he’d become king, including the scandalous case in which an archdeacon poisoned the Archbishop of York and, as punishment, was deprived of his archdeaconry.
Roger remembered, too, the case that sometimes troubled his dreams even now. A clerk in Worcestershire had raped a young girl and slain her father. When Henry insisted that the man be turned over to a royal court, Becket had ordered Roger, as Bishop-elect of Worcester, to imprison the man so he could not be seized by the king’s justices. Roger believed in the principle defended so passionately by Thomas Becket, that the clergy had Christ alone as their king and were not subject to royal jurisdiction. It was easier to argue, though, when the consequences of that principle-the abused daughter and widow of the murder victim-were not kneeling at his feet pleading for justice.
“A pity,” Henry said coolly, “that Thomas was so adamant, so scornful of compromise on the issue of jurisdiction. Had he been more reasonable, his murderers would not have gone free. Ironic, is it not, Cousin?”
Roger could have pointed out that Becket would not have been murdered if Henry had not lost his temper and spoke those fatal words that sent four men to Canterbury Cathedral, thinking they were fulfilling the king’s wishes: What miserable drones and traitors I have nourished and promoted in my household, who let their lord be mocked so shamefully by a lowborn clerk! But he did not, for what purpose would it serve? It would change nothing. He looked at Henry, hearing an echo of his cousin’s hoarse, desperate denial. As God is my witness, those men did not murder him at my bidding. The real pity, he thought, was that Harry’s remorse had faded so fast.
With the mediation of Archbishop Rotrou of Rouen, Bishop Arnulf of Lisieux, and the Archdeacon of Poitiers, peace was made between the English king and the Roman Church. It was agreed that Henry and the papal legates and bishops would ride south to Avranches and Henry would there do public penance for his part in the murder of the Archbishop of Canterbury and receive absolution of his sins.
From the castle battlements, Henry had a superb view of the bay and, in the distance, the celebrated abbey of Mont St Michel. It was one of the marvels of Christendom, built upon a small, rocky island that was entirely cut off from the mainland at high tide. It had a dreamlike appearance, seeming to rise out of the sand and sea foam like a lost vision of God’s Kingdom, its high, precarious perch above the waves so spectacular and dramatic that at first glimpse, pilgrims did not see how it could have been the work of mortal men.
It was low tide now and the dangerous, shifting sands had been laid bare. Henry could see a few tiny figures trudging across those sands toward the abbey, but not as many as would be expected. He knew why, of course. Many of the pilgrims had delayed their crossing upon hearing that the King of England would be doing penance upon the morrow at Avranches’s cathedral of St Andrew the Apostle. That would be a sight to behold, a rare tale to bring back to their towns and villages upon completion of their pilgrimages.
Henry narrowed his eyes, as much at that unwelcome thought as at the unrelenting gusts of sea-borne wind, belying spring’s calendar with its chill. Glancing at his closest companion, he said, “It has been far too long since I visited your abbey. Mayhap we can make time ere I must depart for Caen. When was I there last-when I came with Louis?”
Abbot Robert pretended to ponder the question; as if he did not have every one of the king’s stays seared into his memory like a brand! A royal visit was the greatest honor imaginable, but it was also a great expense and a great strain, for the striving after perfection on such an occasion was both exhausting and utterly elusive. Thinking of Henry’s sojourn with the French king, he smiled at the memory, for it had always amazed him that Henry should have been able to win over the man who’d been Eleanor’s first husband. Of course that unlikely peace had not lasted, but it had endured long enough for Henry to arrange an even more unlikely marriage between his eldest son, Hal, and Louis’s daughter, Marguerite, child of the woman he’d wed after divorcing Eleanor.
“I believe that was indeed your last visit, my liege,” he confirmed, all the while marveling at the vagaries of fate. He had devoted much of his life to a history of his abbey and his times, and he wondered what future historians would make of the improbable story of Henry Fitz Empress and Eleanor of Aquitaine.
A great heiress and a great beauty, she’d wed the young French king at thirteen, easily winning his heart, for he’d been pledged to the Church at an early age, would have happily served the Almighty if his elder brother had not died in a fall from his horse, and he retained a guileless innocence, a monkish simplicity that was ill suited to the worldly sophistry of the royal court. Their marriage had been neither happy nor fruitful, for they were as unlike as fire and milk. In fourteen years of wedlock, Eleanor had given birth to only two children, both daughters, and when their union was finally dissolved on the grounds of consanguinity, the true reason was her inability to give him a male heir.
Barely three months later, she had shocked their world by wedding Henry, then Duke of Normandy, who was nine years her junior. Louis the king was horrified that so dangerous an adversary as Henry should have access to the riches of Eleanor’s Aquitaine, and Louis the man was mortified and hurt that Eleanor should have defied him by choosing such an unsuitable husband, one ambitious, bold, clever, and lusty. Their swift, secret marriage had led to war with France, and Louis’s humiliation was complete when Henry needed but six short weeks to send his army reeling back across the border, and but two years to claim the English crown. Eleanor then proceeded to salt Louis’s wounds by giving Henry five sons and three daughters, losing only William to the deadly perils of childhood.
At least Louis had the consolation of envisioning his daughter as Queen of England. But even that had not gone as planned. Two years ago, Henry had mortally insulted Thomas Becket by allowing the Archbishop of York to crown his fifteen-year-old son, a coronation that Becket had futilely forbidden. But in the chaos and confusion, Marguerite had not been crowned with her young husband, giving Louis yet another grievance against his Angevin rival.
A sudden clamor turned Henry’s attention from the abbey to the town below them. The streets were winding and narrow, accommodating the hilly terrain, and he could only catch glimpses of riders and horses. But then the wind found a fluttering banner of red and gold and he smiled. “My son is riding into Avranches,” he announced. “I should have known from the cheers.” He glanced toward the abbot, wanting to share his pride and pleasure with his friend. “You’ve not seen the lad for years, have you, Rob? Wait till you see how he’s grown-already taller than me and he’s just three months past his seventeenth birthday!”
Others had followed Henry onto the battlements: his uncle Rainald, his cousin Roger, his justiciar, Richard de Lucy, and Hamelin de Warenne, his half brother. Hamelin was the illegitimate son of Henry’s father, Geoffrey, Count of Anjou, taken under Henry’s wing after Geoffrey’s untimely death. Hamelin had flaming red hair, an open, freckled face that made him seem much younger than his thirty years, an impulsive nature and, thanks to Henry, a very wealthy wife who’d brought him the earldom of Surrey. His affection for Henry was equaled only by his awe, and he beamed now to see his elder brother in such good spirits.
“Does Hal know why you summoned him to Avranches?”
Henry shook his head. “He thinks he is here just to swear to those agreements I am making with the Church.” Seeing Abbot Robert’s puzzled look, he explained, “I have a surprise in store for the lad.”
Below them, men were riding into the castle’s inner bailey. There was no need to point out the young king. Everything about him-the spirited grey stallion and ornamented saddle, the costly mantle of fine scarlet wool, the white calfskin gloves studded with pearls, the stylish pointed cap with a turned-up brim embroidered in gold thread, the gilded spurs attached to his boots with red leather straps-proclaimed him to be of high birth and one of God’s favorites. He’d been blessed, too, with uncommonly good looks, tall and well formed, with vivid blue eyes and gleaming golden hair, cut short around his ears, one lock allowed to curl fashionably onto his forehead. Catching sight of his father up on the battlements, he doffed his cap in a gesture both graceful and dramatic, and Henry grinned.
Staring down at this handsome youth, Abbot Robert blurted out, “If he is not the very image of Count Geoffrey!”
“He has my father’s coloring for certes,” Henry agreed, “and his sense of style. He has my father’s ready wit, too. Did you hear, Rob, what he said at his coronation feast? To honor him, I myself carried the great boar’s head dish to his table. The Archbishop of York commented that it was not every prince who was served by a king. And Hal said, quick as a flash, ‘Yes, but it can be no condescension for the son of a count to serve the son of a
