22
Berkhamsted, 1163
It was Christmas Eve, and the Yule log had just been dragged into the great hall by several beefy serfs, while the castle servants were busily picking out the best branches from the great piles of evergreens strewn across the floor; these would be used to decorate the hall. The younger royal children scampered among them, full of excitement, eager not to miss out on the festive fun. They had already been shooed out of the kitchens, where the Christmas brawn was seething in its pan, and great joints of meat were roasting over the spits.
Upstairs, the King was bursting into the Queen’s bower with his usual lack of ceremony. He wore a look of triumph.
“He has submitted!” he announced without preamble. “He has sworn to uphold the ancient customs of England—without qualification!”
Eleanor stood up, laid down the rose silk
“I think we have Bishop Foliot to thank for that,” she said. Henry had cunningly translated Foliot to the important See of London, so that he would be on hand to advise his king and lead the opposition to Becket. One by one, persuaded by Foliot’s eloquent arguments, the bishops had gone over to Henry.
“And the Pope!” the King cried jubilantly. “Don’t forget Alexander needs my support. He ordered Thomas to submit, and told him he could expect no help from Rome if he did not. So Becket is defeated on all sides. Eleanor, this is the best Yuletide gift I could have received!”
Eleanor twined her arms around his neck; these days, they were not so openly demonstrative toward each other as they once had been, but she was so pleased to see Henry’s face lit up by his victory that she could not help herself. She knew he was reluctant to display his inner hurts to her nowadays, yet he would not despise her sharing his victory. But although he briefly returned the embrace, he soon disentangled himself and went to warm his hands by the fire. They were rougher than ever now, scabbed and callused from hours spent in the saddle, gripping worn leather reins.
He stood with his back to her. She could not—thank God!—know that he had just come from the arms of Rohese, that Thomas’s messenger had encountered him as he’d left her chamber. He had been too spent to respond to Eleanor, too focused on Thomas’s submission.
He turned around.
“Thomas showed good taste when he did up this place,” he said slowly, looking at the rich hues of the expensive hangings, the decorated floor tiles, the painted and gilded furniture, and the delicate ironwork on the window bars and the fire screen. Eleanor agreed with him. She too had been conscious of the all-pervading, unseen presence of Becket in this castle, once bestowed so lovingly, which Henry had taken from him. Was there no escape from the man? She feared she would scream if she heard the name Thomas Becket again. He dominated their lives to an unacceptable extent. If only Henry had not been so besotted, was not still obsessed! She bit down the need to lash out verbally.
He was looking at her—a touch shiftily, she felt. Was he embarrassed by his obsession with Becket? Had it occurred to Henry that he ought to draw a line under this finished friendship, that it was unfair to her to prolong the agony any further? Evidently not, for when he spoke again, it became clear that his mind could focus on only one thing—or one person, to be more exact.
“Of course, I only have Thomas’s promise privately, in a letter,” Henry said. “He must submit publicly to my authority.”
“Is that wise?” Eleanor asked, taking up her embroidery again. “He must feel he has been humiliated enough.”
“It is necessary,” Henry said coldly. “He must be seen to submit, then my bishops will know without a doubt where their allegiance should lie.”
“I am sure you know best,” Eleanor said sourly, unable to help herself. Let be! Let be! she was crying inwardly.
Henry came to stand in front of her, looking down sardonically.
“Oh, I do,” he said softly. “And I hope you will be there to see it happen.”
“You may count on that,” she replied briskly. “And now, let us think of our children, and our guests, and do all honor to this season of Christ’s birth.” And put Becket out of your mind. Those words lay unsaid, like a sword between them.
23
Clarendon, 1164
Eleanor seated herself beside Henry, huddling inside the heavy folds of the gold-banded crimson mantle that swept the floor around her feet, and extending one gloved hand to straighten the circlet that held her linen veil in place. They were enthroned in the spacious hall at Clarendon, the magnificent royal hunting lodge near Salisbury. The lords and clergy were swathed in furs against the January chill, and as soon as the King sat down, they settled with a rustling of silks on their benches. Archbishop Becket sat slightly apart, his face grim beneath his bejeweled miter, his white hand clenched around the staff of his crozier.
Henry leaned across to Eleanor.
“This should be plain sailing,” he murmured. “I have already taken counsel of my civil and canon lawyers, and they tell me that my Lord of Canterbury has no grounds whatsoever for opposing my proposals.”
“I pray God that he will see it that way too, and that we can have an end to this quarrel,” Eleanor said low, her fingers mindlessly pleating the rich brocade of her
Henry bristled. “It was not of
“My lords,” he began in a ringing voice, “I have summoned you today to ask for your endorsement of a new code of sixteen laws, in which are enshrined the ancient customs of this realm. I am happy to tell you all that our good friend here, Archbishop Becket, has already sworn to uphold these customs, so you need have no qualms about approving them.”
Becket’s expression was unreadable; it seemed he was keeping a tight rein on himself. But then he would, Eleanor thought: everything he did was studied, lacking in spontaneity. She did not believe he would acquiesce as meekly as Henry anticipated. He would be looking for a loophole. He would not go down without a fight.
The Archdeacon of Canterbury, who was acting as Henry’s unofficial chancellor, since no one of Becket’s stature and abilities could be found to fill his shoes, stood up and unscrolled the parchment on which were listed the new laws. There was a lot of nodding and a few ayes from the company as they listened intently to the first two articles, and Becket seemed to relax a little. So far it was all just a reiteration of the old and familiar customs, as Henry had said.
Henry was watching Becket too, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Eleanor wondered what game he was playing. Almost certainly he had something up his sleeve.
She did not have to wait long to find out, for the archdeacon—a man who was not stupid, and who knew he was about to summon up a tempest—cleared his throat and read article three, as Henry sat smiling complacently.
“The King has decreed that, henceforth, criminous clerks be handed over to the royal courts for sentencing.”
Becket leaped to his feet.
“Lord King, there is not, nor ever has been, any law in this realm to that effect!” he protested. The bishops looked unhappily at one another.
“Be that as it may, there is such a law now,” Henry said softly, his tone menacing.
“It is laid down in Holy Scripture: render unto Caesar those things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things
