Gilbert Foliot had more weighty matters on his mind than the comeliness of the king’s son. It was barely two months since he’d gotten the Pope to lift Becket’s sentence of excommunication, and he well knew that his participation in this day’s coronation was likely to thrust him back into papal disfavor. But courtesy was a virtue and he agreed that the young king was indeed fair to look upon, adding politely that the queen had been a great beauty, after all.
Rainald chuckled, looking at the bishop indulgently. “Nay, my lord, I meant the boy’s grandsire. I can find nothing of the queen in that lad. Look at his coloring, the tilt of his head, then tell me he is not the veritable image of Geoffrey of Anjou!”
Foliot had not seen the resemblance before, but now that it was pointed out to him, he marveled how he could have missed it. He had been a staunch supporter of the Empress Maude, which meant that he was no admirer of the late Count of Anjou, and he silently expressed the wish that young Hal resembled his grandfather in nothing more significant than appearance.
Rainald reached for a bread sop, dunking it in the glistening green sauce of their shared mackerel dish. “Let’s hope the lad’s good looks are his only legacy from Geoffrey. My sister loathed the man, and with cause, by God!”
That was tactless enough to make both Foliot and Hugh wince. No matter how cheerful Henry was this day, he’d like it not to hear his father disparaged; his affection for Count Geoffrey had been well known. Fortunately, there was a sudden bustle of activity in the hall as this course came to an end, and Rainald’s comments passed unnoticed. Ewers were bringing out lavers of water scented with bay leaves and chamomile; because so much of a meal was eaten with the fingers, it was essential that guests be offered several opportunities to wash their hands. The panter was cutting new trenchers for those at the high table, as by now theirs were soaked with gravy. Not even the hungriest diners would eat their trenchers, for bread had to be coarse and stale to be firm enough to serve as a plate; as they were replaced, the crumbling, sodden trenchers were collected for God’s poor.
There was a sudden stirring as Henry rose to his feet. He stopped others from rising, too, and gestured for the musicians to resume playing. As the music of harp and lute filled the hall, Henry stepped down from the dais. Exchanging brief pleasantries with the guests at his table, he paused before his kinsmen.
“There is no need to ask if you’ve been enjoying the dinner, Uncle,” he joked, “not after all you’ve been eating!”
Rainald grinned and patted his paunch. “Jesú forfend that I insult Your Grace by showing indifference to this fine fare! In all candor, you’ve always been one for eating on the run. I trust you are not about to put an end to the festivities?”
Henry grinned back. “This is one dinner that could last into the morrow and I’d not complain. No, I have a surprise for my son.”
Making his way across the hall, he waited until he saw the server approaching the door and then signaled for a trumpet fanfare to introduce the meal’s pièce de résistance. Garnished with sliced apples, centered on a large silver platter, the great boar’s head was an impressive culinary tribute to the young king, for it was more commonly served during Christmas revelries. The admiring murmurs gave way to cheers when Henry moved forward and took the platter himself. The sons of the nobility learned manners by waiting upon tables in great households, and a king was often served at state banquets by peers of the realm. But Henry’s action was an unprecedented compliment to his son.
With all eyes upon him, Henry carried the boar’s head to the high table, where he stood smiling up at his eldest son. Hal smiled, too, looking so composed and regal that Henry glowed with pride. The Archbishop of York glanced from Henry to Hal and said with the smoothness of a practiced courtier, “It is not every prince who can be served at table by a king.”
Hal’s blue eyes took the light, a smile still hovering at the corners of his mouth. “Yes,” he said, “but it can be no condescension for the son of a count to serve the son of a king.”
There was utter silence. Even those who hadn’t heard Hal’s retort sensed something was amiss by the shocked expressions on the faces of those at the high table. The Archbishop of York was at a rare loss for words, and Rainald nearly strangled on a mouthful of wine. Henry looked startled and then he laughed. Others echoed his laughter dutifully, but the laughter had a hollow sound. With the exception of Henry and his son, few in the hall found any humor in the young king’s too-clever quip.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
September 1170
Bec-Hellouin, Normandy
SOFT SHADOWS AND SILENCE. That was the boy’s first impression of the interior of the abbey church. Outside, the sun was blazing across a noonday sky, but within the nave, it could have been dusk. Blinking, he stumbled over a prayer cushion and lurched into the font. The noise he’d made seemed to roil through the stillness like thunder, and he flushed, relieved when the kneeling figure of his father did not react. The marble tomb glimmered in the gloom. He wondered if it was as cold and smooth as it looked. The woman buried here was his aunt, but she was a stranger to him. He’d never even laid eyes upon her and was sure that she’d not have welcomed him into her family circle, for she had been a great lady, an empress, and he was a lord’s bastard, born in sin.
“Requiescas in pace, Maude.” Rainald rose stiffly to his feet, for physical activity without aching muscles and creaking bones was as long-gone as his youth. Peering into the dimness, he beckoned to the boy.
As they emerged into the September sunlight, Rainald collided with a man striding briskly along the cloisters walkway. “Whoa!” Recognizing the chasuble and cope of a prince of the Church, Rainald began to offer a laughing apology. “I’m not always blind as a mole, my lord, but these old eyes of mine need time to—” As his gaze rose to the bishop’s face, he broke off with a cry of delighted surprise and enfolded the other man in an enthusiastic embrace. “Roger!”
Roger grinned and fended off another hug. “Nay, Uncle, my ribs will snap like twigs. For all your talk of aging eyes, your clenches could put a bear to shame.”
“Only an elderly bear with the joint-evil and a potbelly! What are you doing here, Roger?”
“The same as you, Uncle . . . paying honor to Maude.”
Rainald shook his head. “I can hardly believe that she’s been dead three years. Will you be saying the Requiem Mass?” Getting an affirmation, he smiled, and then remembered the boy. “Come here, lad. Roger, I want you to meet Rico . . . my son. Rico, this is your cousin Roger, the Bishop of Worcester.”
Rico made his father proud by kneeling and kissing the bishop’s ring. Roger was impressed by the boy’s good manners and he acknowledged the introductions with deliberate warmth, knowing that would please Rainald. It was a poorly kept family secret that Rainald adored this unlawfully begotten son of his and felt remorse and anxiety that he could not give Rico all that his legitimate heir, Nicholas, would one day claim. Roger had an uneasy sense that Nicholas would not long enjoy the honors of his father’s earldom, for the youth had inherited his mother’s frail physique and delicate health. An image of Nicholas flashed into his memory as he looked upon Rainald’s other son, for the contrast between them could not have been more dramatic: Nicholas, hollow-eyed and arrow-thin, with a winter-white pallor even in midsummer, and Rico, a youngster of sturdy build and obvious energy, a handsome lad who’d likely grow into a handsome man if the fates were kind.
There was a wooden bench in one of the cloister carrels and Rainald headed toward it now, making one of his usual jokes about “old bones.” Roger followed willingly and Rico dutifully. Taking pity on the boy, Roger concocted an interesting errand for him to run, and Rico was soon trotting across the grass toward the slype. Just before he disappeared into the passage, he suddenly did a handstand, for no other reason but the bliss of being ten years old and on his way to the stables on a mild September afternoon.
Both men exchanged a rueful smile, one that acknowledged
the pure joys of childhood were distant memories, and thank God for it. “I thought,” Roger said, “that you named the lad Henry.” When Rainald confirmed that he had, the bishop looked puzzled. “Then why Rico?”
“Well, you saw him, dark as a Saracen, no? After he was born, I was joking that he looked as dusky as a Sicilian and we ought to christen him Enrico rather than Henry. The next I knew, his mother was calling him Rico and soon I was, too.”
Rainald’s eyes took on a fond, faraway look and Roger surprised himself by feeling a small dart of envy. He’d known when he’d taken his vows as a priest that he’d be forswearing those sinful pleasures that other men held most dear: carnal lust and good wine and bad company. He’d also be renouncing the Almighty’s blessings of marriage and fatherhood. He had never repented his choice, could not even envision a life not given over to God. But there were times when he wondered about that road not taken and the sons he’d never have.
“Speaking of sons,” he said, “I recently heard that Eleanor had young Richard invested as Count of Poitou this spring. I suppose that explains why she was absent from Hal’s coronation.”
“Well, she was also occupied with guarding the coast for Harry . . . as you ought to know, lad. She kept you from sailing from Dieppe, no?”
“So you heard about that, did you?” Roger could jest about it now, but at the time, he’d found no humor in his plight. Having learned that Henry planned to crown his son, Thomas Becket had instructed Roger to go at once to England with papal letters forbidding the coronation. At the same time, Henry had commanded Roger to return to England so that he could attend the coronation. Roger felt that he had no choice but to obey his archbishop, although painfully aware that if he thwarted Hal’s coronation, his cousin the king would never forgive him. There was a certain relief, therefore, in discovering that the Bishop of Lisieux had alerted the queen about his mission for Becket and she’d given orders that no ship in any Norman port was to give him passage.
“Did you also hear about the public brawl that Harry and I had upon his return to Normandy?”
Rainald shook his head, looking so expectant that Roger had to smile; few men savored gossip as much as his uncle. “Harry was on his way to Falaise and I rode out to meet him. He at once began to berate me for not attending Hal’s coronation. When I told him that the queen had forbidden me to sail, he cursed me all the more loudly for trying to lay the blame on her. By then, I was no less wroth than he, and I shouted back that he was fortunate I was not present at the coronation for I’d not have allowed it to take place. I also accused him of ingratitude, reminding him of how much my father had done to secure his crown and how little he had done for my brothers after gaining the throne.”
Rainald whistled admiringly, only half in jest. He did not consider himself a timid soul, but he knew he’d not have spoken up as boldly as Roger, not to the man who was his king as well as his nephew. “Do not stop now. What happened then?”
“Our quarrel was being conducted on horseback, out on the Falaise Road, so we had a large, interested audience. Some of the knights in the king’s household began to mutter amongst themselves and one man sought to curry favor with Harry by heaping abuse on me as an ingrate and traitor.”
Rainald let out a short bark of laughter. “I can well imagine Harry’s reaction to that!”
Roger grinned. “Yes . . . Harry damned near took the poor fool’s head off! Who was this miserable wretch, that he dared to insult the Bishop of Worcester and the king’s kinsman? Harry stopped in mid-harangue, as if hearing himself—fiercely defending the very man he’d been threatening but moments before—and then burst out laughing. As our eyes met, I could not help laughing, too, and no more needed to be said. We rode on into Falaise and dined together that noon. And after Harry met with the Holy Father’s envoys and agreed to their terms for making peace with the archbishop, he asked me to accompany him to Fréteval, which I did.”
“You were at Fréteval?” Rainald was delighted. “Word reached us in England, of course, about their accord, but an eyewitness account is more than I hoped for.”
“As you doubtless know, the agreement they reached is basically the same one that they were quarreling over at Montmartre. Harry agreed to allow Thomas to return to his diocese at Canterbury and to restore the episcopal estates and to permit Thomas to re-crown Hal, along with Louis’s daughter. Thomas in turn agreed to defer his claims for damages done to his lands during his exile and promised to render to Harry his love and honor and all the services which an archbishop could do for a king. Harry then promised to give Thomas the Kiss of Peace once they were in England, saying it was meaningless unless done of his own free will and not under compulsion, and Thomas accepted that.”
Roger paused. “All in all, the meeting between them was surprisingly cordial and amicable, with no eleventh hour ambushes by either side. Harry had made peace with Louis on the preceding day, and he seemed quite satisfied with the results of the Fréteval council. So, too, did Thomas and his clerks. As for the papal legates, they were overjoyed.”
Rainald’s first impulse was to take Roger’s account at face value. But Roger’s narration had been curiously flat, as sparse as a skeleton, devoid of all flesh and blood and marrow.
“Then why,” he asked with a sigh, “are you not better pleased by it? I should think that you, of all men, would thank God fasting for a reconciliation between Harry and Becket.”
“Yes . . . if only I could believe their differences had truly been resolved. But they were not, Uncle. They were merely ignored.”
“I do not follow you.”
“Not a mention was made of the Constitutions of Clarendon, and that was at the heart of their antagonism. The Fréteval agreement was riddled with such dangerous omissions and equivocations. Harry agreed that Thomas had the right to discipline the bishops who’d taken part in his son’s coronation, but what precisely does that mean? To Harry, that is likely to mean a slap on the wrist, a minor penalty. What if Thomas interprets those same ambiguous words much more harshly?
“Moreover, Harry will want the sentences of excommunication lifted from Geoffrey Ridel and his other men, and Thomas is already finding excuses to delay that action. And when Thomas demands an exact accounting of the moneys he claims he lost in revenues during his absence, how amenable is Harry going to be to that demand? No, Uncle, I very much fear that this was not so much a peace as a truce.”
Rainald sighed again, for he wanted to believe that Fréteval had been the final destination and not just one more stop along a very rocky road. And because he’d had a lifetime’s experience in exiling unpleasant thought to the peripheral regions of his brain, he managed to push Roger’s qualms into a cobwebbed corner where they could be disregarded.
“Who’s to say a young truce cannot mature into a full-grown peace?” he joked, and then opted for an abrupt change of subject. “Do you know why Harry is missing Maude’s Requiem Mass? He had no choice about her funeral, what with his war in Brittany, but I’d have hoped that he’d make time for this.”
Roger swung around on the bench to stare at him. “Jesú! You do not know, do you?”
Rainald did not like the sound of that. “Know what?” he asked warily. “About Harry’s illness. He was stricken with a tertian fever last month, and for a time, the doctors despaired of his life.”
Rainald’s jaw dropped. “I heard not a word of this! But I went to my estates in Cornwall after the coronation. How does he? Is he still ailing? Was it as serious as all that?”
“Yes, indeed, it was. He made out a deathbed will, confirming the partition of his domains amongst his sons, and a false report of his death even reached Paris, so grievous was his condition. I did not mean to alarm you unduly, Uncle, for he is on the mend now, although I daresay it will take another fortnight ere he recovers his strength.”
Rainald didn’t doubt it, for he’d had some experience of his own with the ague, and knew how debilitating those deadly chills and fever co
uld be. “Where is he? I’ll want to depart after the morrow’s Mass for Maude. Is Eleanor with him?”
“He was taken ill at Domfront and he is not yet up to riding, so for once you can actually be certain of his whereabouts, at least until he is strong enough to stay in the saddle. And no, Eleanor is in Poitiers.”
Rainald wondered if that Clifford chit had been there, but decided it was not a tactful query to put to a priest. “God be praised,” he said, “for sparing his life. I could not envision our world without Harry. It would be like blotting out the sun.” Thinking then of the coronation, he said softly, “I’d just as soon Hal’s kingship remained an empty honor for some years to come.”
“Deo volente,” Roger said, no more than that, but there was something in his tone which told Rainald that in this, they were of the same mind.
UPON HIS RECOVERY, Henry and Eleanor made a pilgrimage to the shrine of St Mary at Rocamadour at Quercy in her duchy of Aquitaine to give thanks. In late September, Thomas Becket joined him at Tours, arriving before the start of daily Mass, where the king would have been compelled to offer him the Kiss of Peace. One of the archbishop’s most bitter enemies, Rannulph de Broc, had boasted that he would kill Becket before he had eaten one whole loaf on English soil, and the archbishop was alarmed enough to want the extra assurance of the Kiss of Peace. But Henry was alerted to Becket’s early arrival, and annoyed by what he saw as the archbishop’s duplicity, he instructed the priest to celebrate the Mass for the Dead, in which the ritual kiss is omitted.
OCTOBER THAT YEAR was uncommonly warm and the trees were still green and full; only an occasional flare of crimson or saffron reminded men that the autumnal season was past due. The fourteenth dawned with a summer’s languor, the sky above Chaumont-sur-Loire a patchwork of bleached blue and fleecy white, the air very still, without even a hint of a breeze. Henry had just finished two days of meetings with the Count of Blois and intended to leave Chaumont on the morrow for his castle at Chinon. His plans for this humid, sultry Wednesday—to hear petitioners, hold an audience with the Archbishop of Tours, and go hunting for roe deer in the forest north of the River Loire—were disrupted by the unexpected arrival of the Archbishop of Canterbury.