Porhoet, but she wanted to make Henry sweat a little over it. He gave her a quizzical look, then turned away.
“You heard,” he said.
“All Europe heard!” she answered tartly. “How could
“Eleanor, I did not ask you here to fight with you.” Henry’s tone was almost pleading. “You asked for your freedom, and you have it. At least allow me mine.”
“Naturally,” she said sweetly. “I trust that Rosamund—‘Fair Rosamund,’ as I hear they now call her—how charming that sounds!—wasn’t too upset by it. She is still your mistress, I take it?”
“Vixen!” Henry barked. “You haven’t been here five minutes and you’re picking a quarrel with me.”
“Yes, but I’ve been storing up a few things to say to you over the past two years,” Eleanor riposted.
“Actually, it is good to see you,” Henry said. “Don’t spoil it.”
“How touching!” she exclaimed, smiling a touch too gaily.
“We need to work together now,” he told her, frowning. “Shall we call a truce?”
“A truce!” The smile seemed to be fixed on her face. “If you will.”
They dined in the solar, the servitors having withdrawn after laying out the food on a side table, from which they helped themselves.
When they were seated, Henry wasted no time in returning to the subject of Young Henry’s coronation.
“What I want,” he began, “is to see Thomas restored to his rightful place in Canterbury, and an end to this interminable wrangling. It is fitting that the Archchbishop of Canterbury perform the ceremony.”
“But I heard you had quarreled again with Becket last year?”
Henry sighed deeply. “Indeed I did. Louis had offered to mediate—once more—and, at his suggestion, I sent to tell Thomas that I would support his reinstatement if he would retract his condemnation of the Constitutions of Clarendon. And he agreed, Eleanor! He said he would do it.”
“So what went wrong?” She’d heard several garbled versions of what had actually taken place and had not known which to believe.
“He came to see me. We hadn’t set eyes on each other for four years, so you can imagine how I felt. He fell on his knees, then prostrated himself fully before me, begging for mercy.”
“He was ever one for the grand gesture,” Eleanor observed acidly.
“You sound just like my mother, God rest her,” Henry objected.
“Your mother was a very wise woman—she had the measure of this man.”
“Look, I am trying to tell you what happened,” Henry protested.
“Go on then,” she said coolly.
“Well, I thought that would be it. We’d exchange the kiss of peace, he’d go home to Canterbury, and we’d all live happily ever after.”
“Henry, this is Thomas Becket we are talking about. Nothing is ever straightforward with this priest. What did he do?”
Henry flung her a hurt look, but resumed his tale without rising to the bait. “He ruined it all. He said he would submit to my pleasure in all things saving the honor of God, and that it did not become a priest to submit to the will of a layman. By which I knew, beyond doubt, that we were back to where we’d started.”
“And what did you do?”
“I lost my temper. I swore at him and walked out, with everyone in an uproar, and Louis trying ineffectively to tell Thomas that he was being too obstinate. And that was that. Becket stormed back to his cloister, and has been sulking there ever since, God damn him.”
Eleanor rose, took her plate to the buffet, and speared two more pieces of chicken with her knife. “So where do we go from here?” she asked.
“I propose—and I want your approval for this—to have our loyal friend Roger, Archbishop of York, crown Young Henry instead.”
Eleanor turned and stared at him. “You know that Becket would see that as a gross insult?”
“I do,” Henry replied defiantly, “and I know too that it would offend those who love tradition. But I cannot afford to let this infernal priest interfere with my plans. Do you agree?”
“Absolutely. It might be a way of bringing Becket to heel.”
But it was not.
“He has threatened me with excommunication if I order Archbishop Roger to officiate at the crowning,” Henry roared. “What’s more, he has complained to the Pope, and His Holiness has forbidden it, also on pain of excommunication. And any bishop or priest who takes part in the ceremony will also be subject to anathema. It is not to be borne, and by the eyes of God, I will defy them both! I am going to England now, to see the thing done, and I want you to stay here and govern Normandy in my absence.”
“You know you have my support,” Eleanor told him. He looked at her for a lingering moment, his expression warmer than she had seen it in years. But he said nothing; his mind was on practicalities.
“Close all the ports and keep them closed until you hear from me,” he commanded. “We don’t want our friend Thomas crossing the Channel and spoiling things.”
“What of your bishops?”
“Leave me to bully them. They know what’s good for them. When all is ready, I will send for Young Henry. I leave it to you to ensure that he comes with a suitable escort. Add a couple of bishops for good measure, so that the people may believe this is done with the blessing of the Church. You’ll know how to cozen your prelates.”
“You may safely leave all that to me,” Eleanor assured him. “What of young Marguerite? Is she to be crowned too?”
“No. I dare not risk offending Louis at this time. He might be upset at my defying the Pope. Keep the wench with you. Tell her I will arrange a second crowning later, when Becket has come to his senses.”
Eleanor was convinced that Henry was doing the right thing, and she was touched that he now had such a good opinion of her abilities as a ruler that he trusted her to hold Normandy in his absence; but her heart grieved that she would not be there in Westminster Abbey to see her son made a king. On the appointed day, Sunday, the fourteenth day of June, she had special prayers offered up for him at mass, and spent hours on her knees, with Marguerite at her side, beseeching God to bless and direct him in his high office.
With the Channel ports open once again, messengers were able to bring her reports of the coronation.
“The Young King cut a fine figure in his crown and robes of estate, my lady! People were saying he was the most handsome prince in all the world.”
“He was debonair and gallant, every inch the King, and only a little lower than the angels!”
“Some called him beautiful above all others in form and face. He is blessed in courtesy, most happy in the love of men, and has found grace and favor with his future subjects.”
Eleanor’s spirit soared when she heard these paeans of praise, yet there was one report that did not come to her directly by way of a royal messenger, but through the gossip of a lady betrothed to a knight who had been at the coronation banquet and now come home to be married. Entering her bower, she overheard this damsel telling the others that the Young King had shown grave disrespect to his father. Then they suddenly realized that Eleanor had come upon them and there was an embarrassed silence.
“Well?” Eleanor probed. “Pray continue.”
“My lady, forgive me, I should not be saying this to you,” the girl faltered.
“On the contrary, it is my son of whom you speak, and therefore my business. Go on!” she rapped.
“My lady, my betrothed told me that the Lord King insisted on acting as servitor to the Young King, and when he carried the boar’s head on a platter to the high table, he jested that it was unusual to see a king wait at table. But the Young King replied that it was no condescension to see the son of a count wait upon the son of a king, and—and he was not joking, my lady.”
Eleanor concealed her dismay well. “I suggest you cease telling tales like this about your betters, young lady,” she chided. “Now, fetch my embroidery.” The story rang true, though, and she decided to have a word with William Marshal, who was about to leave for England to head the new household that Henry had set up for the Young King, and tell him to exhort his charge, on her behalf, always to show the proper respect and deference for his father.
With Geoffrey and the Young King formally invested with the crowns and insignia of their future inheritances, it was now Richard’s turn. As Eleanor’s heir, he was to be installed as Count of Poitou in Poitiers, and it was there Eleanor traveled that summer. She thought she would burst with pride as she stood in the Abbey of St. Hilaire and
