Time and Chance

CHAPTER ELEVEN

February 1162

Rouen, Normandy

The Empress Maude was very pleased that Henry had scheduled a Great Council to be held in late February at Rouen, for his peripatetic itinerary would have given a nomad pause. Rarely in one place for more than a few days, he was usually to be found on the roads of his vast realms, hearing petitioners and dispensing royal justice and punishing recalcitrant vassals with the same zest that he displayed in hunting for stags and wild boar. Maude cherished their infrequent reunions, and Shrove Tuesday got off to a joyful start when she learned upon awakening that her son had reached Rouen the night before.

It had been snowing sporadically since midnight, and the priory garth was glistening in the morning sun. Maude’s spirits dimmed briefly at the sight of her horse litter. Swinging like a hammock between the shafts, the litter was a more comfortable way to travel than by cart, and although men resorted to it only if they were infirm or elderly, it was an acceptable mode of transportation for women. But to Maude, the litter was incontrovertible proof of her failing health, and she was tight-lipped as her attendants assisted her to climb inside. Was it truly more than twenty years since she’d fled the siege of Winchester, riding astride like a man with an enemy army in pursuit?

The priory of Notre-Dame-du-Pre was located on the outskirts of Rouen, and the castle walls were soon in sight. In the inner bailey, servants hastily brought out a small stool for Maude’s convenience. But as she straightened up, a snowball whizzed by her head, thudding into the litter’s open door and splattering her mantle.

There was stifled laughter from the bystanders. Maude saw no humor in it, though, and swung around to confront the culprit, only to find herself face to face with her son. “Henry!”

Coming forward with a guilty grin, Henry gave her a quick hug. “Sorry, Mother, my aim was off.”

“He was trying to hit me, and missed by a mile!” Eleanor sauntered up to greet her mother-in-law, laughing over Maude’s shoulder at her husband. She was flushed with the cold, her face becomingly framed in a hood of soft ermine, snow drops melting on her skin like jeweled tears. She looked astonishingly young and very beautiful and utterly alien to Maude, who could not imagine why a queen and mother would so forget her dignity by engaging in a public snowball fight with her own husband.

“Have you both lost your senses? Surely you can find more appropriate ways to amuse yourselves,” she scolded, “than this unseemly tomfoolery!”

“You’re absolutely right,” Henry agreed, but his grin gave him away even before he added, “Eleanor started it.”

“Who dumped snow down whose neck? The truth, Maude, is that Harry could not resist the sight of that unsullied snow. He had to leave his footprints out in it, for all the world to see.”

Henry laughed, then escorted Maude away from the horse litter. “Did you ever see such a splendid day, Mother? Look at the sun on the snow; it is well nigh bright enough to blind you. Let’s go into the gardens. I have something I want to discuss with you both.”

Maude was much more susceptible now to cold than she’d been in her youth, but she was too proud to admit it. In a sense, it was rather flattering that her son seemed oblivious to the increasing frailties of age, still seeing her as the robust, resolute woman who’d known neither fear nor forgiveness, England’s uncrowned, cheated queen. The gardens were deserted, but they did have an austere beauty, the barren earth blanketed now under sparkling drifts, the bare shrubs dusted in white, holly bushes gleaming like emeralds against the snow. Escorting the women toward a bench, Henry brushed it clear, then had to blow upon his hands to warm them, for he rarely bothered with gloves.

“I want to talk to you,” he said, “about finding a new Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Maude refrained from pointing out that it was about time; the See of Canterbury had been vacant for the past ten months. “As I’ve told you,” she said, “you could do no better than the Bishop of Hereford. Gilbert Foliot would be a fine choice, erudite and intelligent and ascetic, as befitting a man of God.”

“I considered Foliot, but I have a better candidate.”

“Surely not the Bishop of Winchester? I know he is one of England’s senior churchmen, Henry, but the man could teach Judas about betrayal!”

“Do you truly think I’d so honor Stephen’s brother? No, Mother, I have someone else in mind, an astute administrator who is both shrewd and subtle and utterly trustworthy.”

Eleanor’s smile was faintly skeptical. “Do not keep us in suspense, Harry. Who is this unlikely paragon of virtue and efficiency?”

“Thomas Becket.”

Both women stared at him “Is this one of your jests, Henry?” Maude sounded uncertain, for his humor had always eluded her. But Eleanor read him better than his mother did, and she’d stiffened, her eyes riveted upon his face.

“No, it is not a jest,” he said, somewhat impatiently, for this was not the response he’d expected. “I am quite serious. As my chancellor, Thomas has proven his worth more times than I could begin to count. He is clever, loyal, and occasionally crafty. Why would he not make a superior archbishop?”

“Possibly because he is not even a priest.” As soon as Eleanor heard herself, she knew she’d struck the wrong note. Sarcasm would only put her husband on the defensive. But she’d been taken by surprise, and was vexed that she’d not seen this coming. For the idea did make a certain skewed sense. Harry and Becket had worked well in tandem for the past seven years. The inevitable clashes between the Church and Crown would be much easier to resolve if England’s king and England’s archbishop were in rare accord and of one mind-Harry’s mind.

Almost as if guessing her thoughts, Henry said, “I am not seeking a puppet. Canterbury’s Holy See cannot be governed by a man without stature or integrity. Thomas has both, and more innate ability and common sense than any bishop in Christendom. If it is just a matter of taking vows, that is remedied easily enough.”

“I think not,” Maude said gravely. As a young boy, Henry had thought she’d sounded verily like God at such moments, blessed with the divine certainty unknown to mere mortals and impossible to argue with. But that awed child was now a man in his twenty-ninth year, and Henry reacted with annoyance, not intimidation.

“Why not, Mother?”

“Thomas Becket can indeed take holy vows, as you say. Nor would I deny that he has been endowed by Our Creator with great gifts. But I do not believe he has a prelate’s temperament. He is a worldly man, urbane and pleasure-loving. He has a liking for fine wines and good food, for hunting and hawking, for well-bred horses and furred mantles and silken tunics. And as Archdeacon of Canterbury, he has neglected his spiritual duties shamefully. Keep him as your chancellor, Henry, for he is well suited to that role.”

“Are you saying there have never been luxury-loving prelates? Remind my mother, Eleanor, about the French king’s most revered adviser. When did Abbot Suger ever deprive himself of a soft feather bed or a roasted partridge?”

“The good abbot did have a liking for his comforts,” Eleanor conceded reluctantly. She was not happy with the direction the conversation had taken, for she did not share Maude’s qualms about Becket’s high living. Her objections to the man were more visceral and less easily articulated. She neither liked nor trusted him and begrudged his role as her husband’s most trusted confidant. Taking another tack, she said, “I do not understand, Harry, why you are so willing to dispense with Becket’s services. Where will you find another chancellor of his capabilities?”

“I have no intention of losing my chancellor. I shall seek a dispensation from the Pope allowing Thomas to act in both capacities. Why not? Louis’s chancellor, de Champfleury, did not resign his post after being elected to the bishopric of Soissons. And the chancellor of the Holy Roman Emperor is also the Archbishop of Cologne. Once we find a reliable deputy chancellor, I see no reason why Thomas cannot serve both me and the Almighty.”

Henry smiled at that, but neither woman did.

“But what if the Crown’s needs and the Church’s needs should diverge? What then, Harry?”

He shrugged. “I am sure accommodations can be reached. Even his enemies would not deny that Thomas is a skilled diplomat. And I have no intention of warring with the Church as Stephen so foolishly did. I will be quite content to keep papal interference to a minimum and to reform some of the worst abuses of the ecclesiastical courts. Who knows my mind in these matters better than Thomas? So who would be better qualified to carry them out?”

Eleanor was not sure how to respond, for his trust in Becket was boundless and hers was meager. “Even the most skilled jongleur can keep only so many balls aloft without dropping one. You may be asking too much of Becket.”

“I agree with Eleanor,” Maude said somberly. “The other examples you cited-in France and Germany-are not quite the same, Henry. The Archbishop of Canterbury is the spiritual head of the English Church. That is a great blessing and a great burden, too. I truly believe that Gilbert Foliot would be a far better choice, and I urge you to reconsider.”

Henry was irritated that they both seemed unable to see as clearly as he did. “I am looking for more than an archbishop. I am seeking an ally, too, and who better for that than Thomas? If I can trust him with my son and heir, why should I not trust him with Canterbury’s holy see?”

Eleanor’s hands clasped in her lap, tightly enough for her rings to pinch her fingers. Henry had recently decided to place Hal in Becket’s keeping, for he was just days from his seventh birthday, too old to remain with his mother. She’d agreed that it was time for their son to begin his formal education, and Becket had been the logical choice. It irked her, nonetheless, to hear Becket call Hal his “adopted son,” and her earlier compliance now came back to haunt her. “If we are unhappy with Becket’s tutelage of our son, we can reclaim him. But what could you do if you become dissatisfied with your new archbishop?”

An old memory surfaced for Maude, buried in the back of her brain for more than fifty years. “When I was wed to the Holy Roman Emperor, Heinrich rewarded his chancellor with the archbishopric of Reims, and the result was a grievous disappointment. Adalbert had been tireless in defending the Crown’s prerogatives, but once he became an archbishop, he changed almost overnight, began to argue for radical reforms and sided with my husband’s adversaries.”

Eleanor gave her mother-in-law a grateful smile, but Henry was not impressed. “Obviously, Heinrich did not know Adalbert as well as he thought. But for seven years, I have been closer to Thomas than to my own brother. I have looked into his heart, seen into his soul. We have worked well together in the past and I do not doubt we can continue to do so in the future.”

Conceding defeat, at least for the time being, Eleanor got slowly to her feet. “It has begun to snow again, and I think we all need to thaw out by the fire. Will you put off a final decision on this, Harry? With so much at stake, you want to be utterly sure you’ve made the right choice. I urge you to think upon it for a while longer.”

Maude added her voice to Eleanor’s, and Henry agreed that he would ponder further upon the matter. But they could take little comfort from his assurance, for they well knew that once he made up his mind, he did not often change it.

Falaise was awash in white-gold sunlight. From the castle’s solar, Henry gazed out upon a cloudless sky, as bright as the April blue-bells lining the banks of the River Ante. Below in the gardens, his eldest son was romping with Eleanor’s greyhounds. Becket had brought Hal to Falaise to bid farewell to his parents, and then they would depart for London, where the barons were to swear a solemn oath of fealty to the boy, acknowledging him as the future King of England. Henry watched his son’s antics with a smile, and then turned back to his chancellor.

“If the weather holds, you should have a smooth Channel crossing, Thomas.”

“God Willing. We’ll depart for Barfleur on the morrow if that meets with your approval?”

Henry nodded. “Eleanor and I know our lad will be in good hands. Now I think it is time we talked of an English see that has been vacant too long.” He was sure that what he was about to say would come as no surprise to Becket, for rumors had been circulating about his intentions for several months, fueled by his recent consultation with England’s most senior bishops. “I am sending my justiciar back with you to England, Thomas. I have instructed him to advise the monks of Christ Church, Canterbury, that I would be greatly pleased if they elect you as their archbishop and greatly displeased if they do not.”

Becket’s smile was self-deprecating, rings glittering on his fingers as he gestured to his finely woven, fashionable tunic and buckled shoes. “And a right saintly archbishop I’d make, would I not?”

“You can switch to sackcloth and ashes if you like,” Henry joked. “In fact, that might be one way to impress the monks. For whilst your election is a foregone conclusion, in all honesty, you’ll not be a popular choice. When I talked to the English bishops about this, they were rather underwhelmed.” Tactfully neglecting to mention that his own wife and mother were among Becket’s opponents, he said, “You need to know this, Thomas, for you will have to prove yourself to many skeptics. I can make you an archbishop. What you do with it, though, will be up to you.”

Becket was no longer smiling. “And did it not trouble you, Harry, that none shared your enthusiasm for elevating me to Canterbury’s Holy See? Did you never think that they could be right?”

“No, I did not. Shall I tell you why? Because I know you better than they do, plain and simple.” Henry straddled a chair, grey eyes puzzled, probing. “What is the matter, Thomas? Clearly you have misgivings… why? And do not tell me you are overwhelmed by the high honor or such blather. You have your virtues, but modesty is not amongst them. So what makes you so wary?”

“I value our friendship, Harry. I would not want to put it at risk.”

“Nor would I. But why should this jeopardize it? Yes, circumstances will change. What of it? As well as we know each other, what surprises are there likely to be?”

“I wish I shared your certainty. It is that… that I do not think you have foreseen the possible consequences.” Becket’s slight stammer was much more pronounced now, an unmistakable sign of tension. “Are you so sure that I can serve both you and the Almighty?”

Henry stared at him and then laughed shortly, amusement warring with exasperation. “I can assure you that I do not see God as a rival. That prideful I am not! If those are your qualms, you can lay them aside. The Almighty and I will not be in contention for your immortal soul.”

Becket’s smile was a polite flicker, and Henry’s patience ran out. “Jesu, Thomas, I am offering you the archbishopric of Canterbury, the greatest plum in Christendom! I did not think I’d have to talk you into it. So you’d best tell me now if you’re crazed enough to refuse.”

Becket smiled more convincingly this time. “When you do put it that way…”

Henry studied the older man and then nodded in satisfaction. “So it is settled then.”

“Yes,” Becket agreed, “it is settled.”

June that year in Wales was cool and wet, with sightings of the sun as scarce as dragon’s teeth. The last Monday in the month dawned to skies greyer than December, and it went downhill from there. In midmorning, a rainstorm swept through the Conwy Valley, and it was still drenching Trefriw when Hywel rode in. His arrival created even more of a stir than usual, for in addition to his customary attendants and servants, he was accompanied by six kinsmen: his son, Caswallon; his foster brothers, Peryf and Brochfael; and no fewer than three of his half-brothers, the raffish Cynan and Maelgwn and the sobersided Iorwerth. Enid was in a dither, determined to entertain them in a style worthy of their rank, not drawing a calm breath until these unexpected and highborn guests were settled comfortably in the great hall with towels to dry themselves off, mead, and cushions.

“I assume you can put us all up for the night,” Hywel asked, beckoning for Ranulf to join him in the window seat.

The question was a mere formality, for hospitality was a sacred duty among the Welsh. Even had Hywel led an army into Trefriw, they’d have been accommodated. “I suppose,” Ranulf grumbled, “you can sleep out in the stables.”

“Spoken like a true Englishman,” Hywel gibed. “But where is your wife? She is the one I really came to see. Is she off visiting her sister?”

“No… she is in our private chambers, lying down.”

Hywel’s gaze had been drifting around the hall, where Peryf and Cynan had begun an arm-wrestling contest. But at that, his eyes cut sharply back toward Ranulf’s face. “Is she ailing?”

Ranulf was staring into the depths of his mead cup. “She miscarried a fortnight ago, Hywel.”

“Ah, Ranulf… I am truly sorry. I did not know she was with child again.”

“We’d told none but the family. She was only in the third month..”

Hywel groped for words of consolation. “To lose a babe is surely one of life’s greatest sorrows. But mayhap in time, she’ll conceive again.”

“She is thirty-nine,” Ranulf said, and although the words themselves were neutral, his tone was without hope.

“So? Queen Eleanor was thirty-nine when she birthed another daughter last year, was she not?”

“Eleanor is not like other women. Childbirth seems to come as easily to her as kingdoms do.”

“She might argue with you about that, Ranulf. I’ve heard more than one woman claim that if men were the ones bearing children, mankind would have died out with Adam.”

Ranulf was suddenly very glad that Hywel was there; smiles and laughter had been absent from his household of late. “Ought I to extend my condolences for your father’s marriage to the Lady Cristyn?”

Hywel heaved a dramatic sigh. “I suppose it was inevitable. But the Lady Gwladys was scarcely in her grave ere Cristyn began planning the wedding. I half-expected her to burst into the church during the funeral service, demanding that the priest say the marriage vows first.”

“Do you call her Stepmama now?” Ranulf asked innocently and then ducked, laughing, when Hywel sent a cushion whipping past his head. “So… how is life in the hive now that there is a new queen bee? You look hale and hearty enough, so I assume the Lady Cristyn has not been slipping hemlock into your mead?”

“No… but then I drink sparingly when I dine with Cristyn. In a way, I cannot blame her for wanting to protect her cubs. A pity they are such worthless whelps. God help Gwynedd if either of them ever gains my father’s crown. Fortunately for Wales, I do not intend to let that happen.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Ranulf clinked his cup playfully against Hywel’s. “I surely do hope you are Gwynedd’s next king. I’d hate to think I’ve been cultivating your friendship all these years for naught.”

“You ought to have some money on the outcome, Ranulf, for few wagers are so certain of success. Peryf is offering odds of two to one in my favor. Of course if you fancy more risk for your money, he says the odds on Little Brother Rhodri are so high not even his mother would chance a wager!”

Ranulf laughed again. Owain and Cristyn’s youngest son had recently turned seventeen, and by all accounts, he was proving to be a handful. “I’ve heard that Rhodri is becoming even more insufferable these days than Davydd, as hard as that is to believe.”

“Believe it. Davydd does have a brain beneath all that bluster. But I doubt that there is much hope for Rhodri, not the way he’s been strutting and swaggering about this spring. I’ve seen barnyard cocks show more sense. Hellfire, even I showed more sense at seventeen!”

Under Enid’s sharp eye, her serving maid was offering their guests food hastily collected from the kitchen. When she reached Ranulf and Hywel now, they helped themselves to napkins and hot wafers. Sitting back in the window seat, Hywel gave his friend a curious smile. “So.. what do you think of Canterbury’s new archbishop?”

“Harry finally selected someone, did he? Who is the lucky man.. Gilbert Foliot?”

Hywel blinked. “You have not heard? You mean I am better informed for once about English affairs than you? And here I’ve been assuring my father that you were worth keeping around for your superior connections to the English king’s court!”

“So much for your celebrated political acumen. Now that I think upon it, I’ve not gotten any letters from Harry or Rainald or my sister for some weeks. Even my niece has been lax about writing and Maud is usually my most reliable source.”

“Ah… that reminds me.” Swallowing the last of his wafer, Hywel fumbled within his tunic. “I have a letter for you.”

At the sight of that familiar seal, Ranulf’s eyebrows rose. “Since when are you delivering my niece’s mail?”

Hywel met his gaze guilelessly. “I happened to be in Chester recently, and naturally I stopped by to pay my respects to the countess.”

“Naturally,” Ranulf echoed dryly. “We both know you’re the very soul of courtesy.” Politely putting the letter away to be read later, he took a sip of mead, regarding Hywel with a sardonic smile. “So you found out about Canterbury’s new archbishop from Maud?”

Hywel nodded. “You’re probably one of the last to hear, for this news has been spreading faster than any brushfire. The Lady Maud says England is talking of nothing else, and once I brought word to my father’s court at Aber, that was the only topic of conversation there, too.”

“Why? Did Harry make so controversial a choice? Whom did he pick?”

“Thomas Becket.”

Ranulf sat up straight. “You are serious? He truly chose Becket?”

Hywel nodded again, happily; he liked nothing better than being the bearer of tidings sure to startle. “The Christ Church monks elected him in late May. On June second, he took holy vows, and the next day he was consecrated as Canterbury’s archbishop. From priest to archbishop in just one day; now that is what I call a spectacular promotion! He seems to think so, too, for his first official act was to decree that the day of his consecration will be a feast day from now on, in honor of the Holy Trinity.”

Ranulf was silent for several moments. “I need time to think upon this,” he confessed. “For once, Hywel, you were not exaggerating in the least. This will have people marveling from Rome to Rouen, and with good reason.”

“That it will,” Hywel agreed, thinking of his father’s jubilant reaction to the news. “According to your niece, the king forced Becket upon the monks and bishops. Few think he has the makings of a good priest, much less an archbishop. But they dared not protest, for they knew your nephew had his mind set on this. Only Gilbert Foliot spoke up, with a very sour jest indeed, saying that the king had wrought a miracle, turning a soldier and worldly courtier into a holy man of God.”

“Well,” Ranulf said slowly, “Harry has always been one for the bold stroke, and this is nothing if not bold. I can see the logic in it, for Becket is one of the very few people whom Harry truly trusts. I can also see the risks. This will be all or nothing, either a brilliant success or an utter disaster, nothing in-between.”

Hywel thought Ranulf’s assessment was right on target; they differed only in which results they were hoping for. Before Hywel could respond, Ranulf was getting to his feet. Turning in the window seat, Hywel saw why; Rhiannon had just entered the hall. He stayed still for a few moments, giving Ranulf a chance to exchange a private greeting with his wife, and then joined them.

Even if Ranulf had not told him about the miscarriage, he’d have guessed that something was amiss. Rhiannon was paler than moonlight, her eyes heavy-lidded and shadow-smudged, and her smile the saddest Hywel had ever seen. “Come over here, darling,” he said before she could speak. “Sit with us in the window seat.”

Rhiannon had meant merely to make a brief appearance, for courtesy’s sake. But Hywel would not be denied. He and Ranulf ushered her across the hall, as solicitously as if she were a queen, taking her wet mantle and finding cushions for her, offering their own cups of mead. Hywel then called for Ranulf’s uncle to fetch his harp. Beaming with delight, Rhodri did.

The hall quieted as soon as the others realized Hywel was going to perform. But Hywel paid the audience no mind. Drawing a stool up, he began to strum the harp, a haunting, plaintive melody that would linger in the memory long after the music ended. “A love poem for the Lady Rhiannon,” he said softly.

I love a rounded fortress, strongly built;

A lovely girl there will not let me sleep.

A bold, determined man will reach the place.

The wild wave breaks there loudly at its side.

My fair, accomplished lady’s lovely home.

It rises bright and shining from the sea.

And she shines all the year upon the house.

One year in furthest Arfon, under Snowdon!

He wins no mantle who looks not at silk.

I will love no one more than I love her.

If she would grant her favor for my verse,

Then I should be beside her every night.

When the song died away, the hall erupted into applause. But for Hywel and Ranulf, the only reaction that mattered was Rhiannon’s, and she was smiling through tears.

In September, Henry met with the French king at the papal court in exile of Pope Alexander III, who’d been driven out of Rome by the Holy Roman Emperor and forced to take refuge at Montpellier in France. The meeting was civil, but the wounds left by the Toulouse war were slow healing. After that, Henry moved south to the great abbey of Deols, and then joined Eleanor at Chinon Castle.

As soon as Eleanor entered the great hall, she knew something unusual had happened. People were clustered together, voices raised. The first person she recognized was her husband’s half-brother. Hamelin was one of Geoffrey of Anjou’s bastards, acknowledged and well educated by the count until his untimely death, and then taken care of afterward by Henry. Hamelin was now in his early twenties and bore a remarkable resemblance to his other half-brother, Will. He did not have Will’s equable temperament, though, was far more excitable and impulsive. Eleanor liked him, for if he was quick to fire up, he was also quick to forgive, and his joyful zest for life usually made him good company. But at the moment, his cheerful, freckled countenance was clouded, and when Eleanor drew him aside, he could barely contain his indignation.

“What has happened, Hamelin?”

“You see that Augustinian canon over there? He was sent by Thomas Becket to return the king’s great seal!”

Eleanor was taken aback. “Are you saying that Becket has resigned the chancellorship?”

“Yes, my lady, he did. No letter, either, just the great seal. And when the king demanded to know why, his messenger said only that he felt scarcely equal to the cares of one great office, much less two.” Hamelin’s devotion to Henry was absolute, and he shook his head angrily. “Can you believe such ingratitude, Madame?”

“Yes,” Eleanor said tersely. “Where is Harry now?” When Hamelin shrugged and shook his head again, she went swiftly in search of her husband. The hunt proved harder than she’d expected. Kings were rarely able to escape the constant surveillance of the curious, but no one seemed to have seen Henry. It was only by chance that she happened to glance upward, saw him standing alone on the castle battlements.

Gusting winds sent her skirts whipping about her ankles, billowing out her mantle behind her. She stayed close to the parapet wall; although she would never admit it, she had a dislike of heights. The sun was redder than blood, haloed by flaming clouds as it blazed a path toward the distant horizon. Normally such a splendid sunset would have caught Eleanor’s eye, but now she never even noticed. “Harry?”

He half-turned, glancing toward her and then away. The view was breathtaking. Far below, the blue slate roofs and church spires of the town were still visible in the day’s waning light, and the river shone like polished brass as it flowed west to join with the Loire. Eleanor knew, though, that her husband was blind to the valley’s beauty. The hot color had yet to fade from his face, still scorching the skin above his cheekbones, and the hand resting on the merlon wall had clenched into a fist.

“Hamelin told me that Becket has resigned the chancellorship.”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly.

She hesitated, for in his present raw mood, whatever she said was likely to be taken wrong. But when she touched his arm, compelling him to meet her eyes, she saw in his face as much hurt as anger, and she found herself doing something she’d never have envisioned: making excuses for Thomas Becket. “What he said may well be true, Harry. He may feel overwhelmed by the obligations and duties of his office. It must be daunting to know that all are looking to him for spiritual guidance, for he was thrust into this role, not bred for it. If men find it hard at first to move from the plains up into the mountains, mayhap he needs time to adjust to the rarefied air on the heights of Canterbury.”

Henry frowned, but found her words were not so easy to dismiss. “I suppose there could be something in what you say,” he conceded grudgingly. “Thomas has always had to be the best at whatever he does, satisfied by nothing less than perfection. Mayhap he truly does fear that he could not do justice to the chancellorship and the archbishopric, too.”

Sliding his arm around her waist, he drew her in against him, and they watched together as the sun disappeared behind the trees. After some moments of silence, he said, “I still do not understand why Thomas did not tell me what he meant to do.”

And for that question, Eleanor had no convincing answer.