Captive Queen

murder was unanimously condemned as being equal in iniquity to Judas’s betrayal of Christ, and King Louis loudly demanded that the Pope unleash the sword of St. Peter in unprecedented retribution. Everywhere, Becket was hailed unreservedly as a blessed martyr, and universally, people laid the blame for his killing at the door of the King of England.

“In truth, Becket is more powerful dead than he was alive,” Eleanor complained to her son Richard, as they listened to yet another tale of the good people of Canterbury flocking to the desecrated cathedral to smear themselves with the blood of their slaughtered archbishop, or to snip pieces from his stained vestments as relics. “Soon, they will be claiming that miracles are taking place at his tomb!”

“I heard him called ‘God’s doughty champion’,” the boy said. “His murder was a terrible thing, but people now forget his long disobedience to his king.”

“It is your father who is the villain now,” Eleanor observed bitterly. “I fear his fame will never recover. And the tragic thing is that he loved Becket, right to the end. He had no real wish to do him harm. And that, my son, is why you should always check yourself before uttering words in anger, words you do not really mean. Had your father done so, Becket would be alive today.”

Henry remained in seclusion for six weeks, refusing to attend to the business of ruling his vast domains. Shut away from the world, he put on a rough robe of sackcloth that he had smeared with ashes from the fire, in penitence for his terrible sin, although nothing, he was convinced, could ever truly expiate it. For three days he took no food, nor would he admit anyone to his chamber—not even his anxious wife. Soon, Eleanor was beginning to wonder if he had lost his reason; she even began to fear he might take his own life. It also occurred to her, although she begged God to forgive her for thinking it, that he was feigning such excessive grief in order to convince people that he could not possibly have desired Becket’s death.

In desperation, she summoned the Archbishop of Rouen, begging him to offer her husband some spiritual comfort.

“The King spoke quite lucidly to me,” the Archbishop told Eleanor after being closeted with Henry for some time. “He is not going mad, so you may put your mind at rest on that score. But he is suffering from an excess of remorse. He holds himself entirely responsible for Archbishop Becket’s murder, even though it had not been his desire or intent. Yet he knows he has brought upon himself the censure and condemnation of the whole of Christendom, and in my presence he called upon God to witness, for the sake of his soul, that the evil deed had not been committed by his will, nor with his knowledge, nor by his plan.”

“I believe that to be true,” the Queen said. “I know him well, and I was there. I heard him say those words. They were spoken in the heat of the moment. Devious and quarrelsome he may be, a tyrant and murderer never.”

“You speak truth,” he replied. “The hard part will be convincing the rest of the world of it. But the King your lord has willingly agreed to submit, through me, to the judgment of the Church, and, showing great humility, he has promised to undertake whatever penance she should decide upon.”

“What more can he do?” Eleanor asked despairingly.

“What of the murderers, those satellites of Satan? Is there any news?”

“They have disappeared, by all reports, although I have ordered the King’s officers in England to make a thorough search.”

“They are dead men already, or as good as,” the Archbishop commented acidly. “The Pope will certainly excommunicate them.”

“I pray he will not excommunicate my lord the King also,” Eleanor said.

“I hope not. The King has decided to send envoys to His Holiness, who will protest that he had never desired the sainted Becket’s death.”

“Alas, I fear that His Holiness will heed the general opinion, which is much to the contrary,” Eleanor worried. Waiting for the Pope to speak would be like having the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads.

Underlying her fear was anger. Henry was a great king; he did not deserve such calumny. Even in death, Becket was hounding him.

Eventually, Henry emerged from his long seclusion, thinner and aged by several years. He had recovered his composure, though, and was ready to take up the burdens and cares of government, but was still weighed down by remorse. Grief and guilt were eating at him, and made him short-tempered and difficult to live with.

Eleanor might have been a distant stranger. Henry had rejected all her offers of comfort in the time of his direst need, and he had nothing to give her now, nor did he appear to want even her companionship. He had withdrawn into himself, his emotions drained. With her fledgling hopes of a permanent reconciliation dashed, she felt that she had little to offer him, and that it might be better for both of them if she were to return to Aquitaine, at least for a short time. Maybe her absence would work its magic, as before. She was not surprised when Henry agreed to her going without protest.

“You are needed there,” was all he said.

As soon as the weather improved, and the roads were passable, she made her farewells, told Henry that he could be assured of her prayers, for the Pope had not yet spoken, and reluctantly rode south.

PART THREE The Cubs Shall Awake 1172–1173

43 Limoges, 1172

Eleanor thought it was a great pity that Henry was not here to see Richard invested as Duke of Aquitaine. The sight of his fine, strapping son in his silk tunic and gold coronet, enthroned in the Abbey of St. Martial, would surely have gladdened his sad heart. It was a shame to be here alone, enjoying this triumph all by herself, watching the abbot place the ring of the martyred St. Valerie, the patron saint of Limoges, on the boy’s finger, and then hearing him proclaimed Duke, as he was presented to the cheering people of Limoges. And thank God they were cheering, she thought; it was as if they were aware that this ceremony, which she herself had devised, was a means of making a final reparation to them for tearing down their walls all those years before.

They had been in agreement, Henry and Eleanor, that Richard, now fourteen, was old enough to exercise power in Aquitaine as its ruler, although she herself, as sovereign duchess, would remain at hand to advise and assist him; they would govern her domains in association with each other—just as they had recently laid the foundation stone together for a new abbey dedicated to St. Augustine.

Richard was now taller than his father and showing signs of becoming a graceful, muscular man, with his long limbs and commanding appearance. In features, he resembled Eleanor, although he got his piercing gray eyes from Henry.

“The Young King is a shield, but Richard is a hammer,” Raoul de Faye perspicaciously declared as they walked in the cloisters taking the late evening air after the feasting had ended. “He will succeed at whatever enterprise he attempts.”

“He is single-minded enough to do so.” Eleanor smiled, knowing that once her son’s mind was made up, he was immovable—just like Henry. “Of all my sons, he is the one destined for greatness.”

“I am impressed to see how he reposes all his trust in you,” Raoul said. “Already, he strives in all things to bring glory to your name.”

“I am much blessed in Richard’s devotion,” she replied proudly. “He is inexpressibly dear to me. I am so sorry that Henry could not be here to witness this day, but he is busy in Normandy. At least he has made his peace with the Pope.” It had taken an oath, sworn by Henry in Avranches Cathedral, that he had neither wished for nor ordered the killing of Becket, but had unwittingly and in anger uttered words that prompted in the four knights the