Time and Chance

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

August 1164

Woodstock, England

As the Archbishop of Canterbury’s retinue approached the king’s manor at Woodstock, villagers thronged the road A to watch. William Fitz Stephen’s stomach was queasy, his skin flushed and damp with perspiration. He would have liked to blame the day’s sultry heat for his discomfort, yet he knew better-it was his lord’s looming confrontation with the king. He cast a sidelong glance at his companion, wondering if Herbert of Bosham shared his unease. But Herbert’s face was alight with anticipation. His outward appearance was so foppish and affected-tall and willowy, handsome and preening-that it was easy to forget his was the soul of a firebrand, one who thrived on controversy and scorned compromise. Fitz Stephen could only hope that Herbert’s thirst for turmoil would go unslaked this day. Why would Lord Thomas seek out the king like this if he did not intend to proffer an olive branch?

They could see the manor walls now, sunlight glinting off the chain-mail of the sentries. Fitz Stephen had many pleasant memories of times spent at Woodstock, riding with Lord Thomas and the king as they hunted in these deep, still woods on hot summer afternoons like this one. Those were bygone days, beyond recall. He glanced at his lord’s taut profile and said a silent prayer that this meeting with the king would go well. It was then that guards stepped forward, blocking the gate.

The archbishop’s men reined in. There was a flurry of confusion and the archbishop began to cough when he inhaled some of the dust kicked up by the milling horses. Fitz Stephen urged his mount forward. Before he could speak, Herbert demanded that the guards step aside. “Do you fools not recognize His Grace? Admit us at once!”

The guards shuffled their feet and cleared their throats, looking so uncomfortable that Fitz Stephen knew at once something was terribly wrong. They did not move away from the gate. “We have our orders,” one mumbled, while the others let their raised spears speak for them.

“What orders?” Thomas Becket frowned impatiently. “The king is expecting me. I sent him word that I would be arriving in midweek.”

There was a silence, and then the boldest of the guards muttered, “The king does not wish to see you, my lord archbishop. We were told not to admit you.”

Color burned into Becket’s face. He opened his mouth, no words emerging. For what was there to say?

After being turned away from Woodstock, Becket seemed to realize just how precarious his position had become. He secretly sought to flee England, not even confiding in his own household. His first try was thwarted by contrary winds, and his second attempt failed when the sailors recognized him and balked, for fear of incurring the king’s wrath.

Becket’s next return to Woodstock was on a dreary August afternoon, under a weeping sky. The road was clogged in mud and the trees dripped with moisture, splattering the riders as they passed underneath. William Fitz Stephen tried not to glance over his shoulder at the smothering cloud cover, but his apprehension increased with each mile that brought them closer to Woodstock. He thought it was the true measure of his lord’s despair that he’d risk another public humiliation. But he knew Thomas feared the consequences of his failed attempts to flee the country, for they were breaches of the Constitutions of Clarendon. If the king did not yet know of these transgressions, it was only a matter of time until he did. Better to face him now and offer his own defense. Fitz Stephen understood his lord’s reasoning. Yet what if the king refused again to give him an audience? What if he would not even listen to the lord archbishop’s explanation? Fitz Stephen no longer harbored hopes that they’d make their peace, not after their last visit to Woodstock.

This time they were admitted by the king’s guards and ushered across the bailey into the great hall. Henry was seated upon the dais, with Eleanor at his side. He greeted Becket with cool civility, his eyes as grey and opaque as the rain clouds gathering overhead. When Becket broached the subject of his abortive flight, Henry heard him out without interruption. The hall hushed then, waiting for the royal wrath to kindle. But Henry offered no rebukes, made no accusations. “Is my kingdom not big enough for the two of us,” he asked, “that you must seek to flee from it?”

It was a barbed jest, yet a jest nonetheless. Relieved laughter rustled through the audience. Thomas Becket did not join in the laughter. Nor did William Fitz Stephen.

Afterward, Herbert of Bosham drew Fitz Stephen aside to comment upon how well he thought the meeting had gone. “I was sure the king would rave and rant over this breach of his accursed Constitutions. Who would have guessed that he’d take it in such good humor?”

Fitz Stephen looked around to make sure none were within hearing range. “Do you not realize what that means, Herbert? The king is done with arguing. I fear he has something else in mind for our lord archbishop.”

Ranulf felt no relief when the walls of Northampton came into view, even though the sight signaled the end of a long and arduous journey. It had not occurred to him to disobey the king’s summons, but never had he dreaded a council as he dreaded this one, for he knew its purpose-to declare war upon Wales. He’d known for months that this day was coming; Henry could not let Rhys ap Gruffydd’s defiance go unpunished. And when an English army crossed into Wales, he knew that Owain Gwynedd would choose to fight with Rhys. What he did not yet know was what he would do.

The sky was a vibrant blue, and October was already beginning to splash its colors across the countryside. But the beauty of the season was lost upon Ranulf. Knowing the castle would be filled to overflowing, he decided to lodge his men at the Cluniac priory of St Andrew’s outside the city walls, only to discover that the priory was already occupied by the Archbishop of Canterbury. As Becket had brought with him a large entourage, including more than forty clerks and numerous household knights and servants, there was not a bed to be found in the priory’s guest hall. Ranulf ordered his weary men back into the saddle. He had better luck with the Augustinian canons at St James, where the harried hospitaller managed to squeeze them in, and within the hour, he was dismounting in the outer bailey of Northampton Castle.

“Ranulf!” His brother Rainald was coming down the steps of the keep. “I was beginning to think you were not coming. The council started yesterday.”

“Wales is a long way off, Rainald. What have I missed? Nothing has been decided yet about the Welsh campaign?”

“There has been no talk at all of Wales so far. Harry has other fish to fry. Ere he deals with the Welsh rebels, he must deal with his rebellious archbishop. So the first item of business was the contempt charge against Becket.”

“What contempt charge?”

“Ranulf, you truly do live at the back of beyond! When are you going to move back to civilization? Come into the hall where we can get an ale and I’ll bring you up to date on all you’ve been missing.”

Seated in a window seat with a flagon and a plate of hot wafers drizzled with honey, Rainald wasted no time in launching into his narrative. “Remember John Marshal, that lunatic who was nearly burned alive in that bell tower ere he’d surrender to Stephen’s soldiers? Well, this summer he lodged a claim in the archbishop’s court for the manor of Pagenham. When he lost, he appealed to the king’s court, as provided by the Constitutions of Clarendon. Becket then made a grave mistake. He did not appear in answer to the king’s summons, sending four knights to argue that Marshal had committed perjury in the Pagenham case. Knowing Marshal, that is more than likely. But Becket should have come himself to the king’s court. By not doing so, he handed Harry a club to bash him with, and you can be sure that Harry made the most of it.”

“He was found guilty, then, of contempt?” Ranulf asked, and Rainald nodded.

“That was all but inevitable since he had no defense to offer. But the sentence passed was unusually harsh for a first offense-forfeiture of all Becket’s movable goods. The best proof that men thought it too severe was that none were willing to pass sentence; the bishops argued that it was for the barons to do and the barons insisted it was more fitting for a bishop to do it. Harry finally lost patience and ordered the Bishop of Winchester to do it. Becket objected at first, but was persuaded by the other prelates that he ought to accept the judgment, and all the bishops save Gilbert Foliot then offered to stand surety for any fine imposed by the court.”

Ranulf was finding it difficult to concentrate upon Becket’s plight when Wales was on the verge of calamity, especially since he felt that many of the archbishop’s troubles were of his own making. “So the Becket case has been resolved, then. Does that mean the matter of Wales will be discussed on the morrow?”

Rainald’s reply was unintelligible, for his mouth was full of wafer. Washing it down with ale, he gave Ranulf a knowing smile. “Becket might think it is over. But I’d wager Harry has a surprise or two still in store for our lord archbishop.”

The Council assembled the next morning in the great hall. This was Ranulf’s first glimpse of the archbishop, and he thought Becket was showing the strain of his war of wills with the king. He’d lost more weight, and he’d not had flesh to spare. His dark hair was feathered with more grey than Ranulf remembered, his natural pallor enhanced by the stark black of the habit he now wore, the garb of an Augustinian monk. He seemed composed, though, doubtless feeling that the worst was behind him. Henry was plainly dressed, as usual, in a green wool tunic. But he did not need silk or fur-trimmed garments to hold center stage. Like Owain Gwynedd, he projected the aura of kingship by his very presence, not by the trappings of royalty, the accoutrements of power. Ranulf needed only a few moments of close observation to conclude that Rainald’s suspicions were correct-their nephew was not ready to settle for a contempt-of-court conviction.

When Geoffrey Ridel rose to speak on the king’s behalf, Thomas Becket stiffened noticeably, for Ridel had been acting as chancellor since Becket’s abrupt resignation of that office two years before. “There are a few other matters to be settled,” Ridel said calmly. “My lord Archbishop of Canterbury owes the Crown an accounting for sums expended during his tenure as chancellor.”

Becket looked perplexed. “What sums are you talking about?” “Three hundred pounds in revenue from the Honour of Eye and the castle of Berkhamsted.”

Becket turned in his seat to stare at the king. “As Your Grace well knows, I used that money to make repairs to the Tower of London.”

“Not on my authorization. Did you get my consent to make these repairs? Did you even discuss them with me?”

“No… but… but that is because I saw no need.” Becket’s stammer had come back. “I never bothered you with minor matters like that. I took it for granted that you’d be in agreement with me.”

“Well,” Henry said softly, “those days are gone… are they not?”

They looked at each other across a distance far greater than the width of the hall. The impasse was broken by the Bishop of Winchester, who hobbled to his feet and asked for a brief recess so Becket could confer with his fellow bishops.

Ranulf had heard that Henry of Blois was no longer the conniving, ambitious opportunist who had goaded his brother Stephen into claiming the crown and thus doomed England to nineteen years of a bloody civil war. Ranulf supposed that it was possible for a man to mellow in old age, sincerely to repent the sins of his past. He just wasn’t sure if the bishop was that man. His suspicions proved unfounded, though, at least on this particular occasion, for the bishops soon returned to the hall and Henry of Blois announced that the Archbishop of Canterbury was confident that he had done nothing wrong. He was willing, however, to make repayment of the three hundred pounds, for he would not have money come between him and his lord king.

Ranulf felt a surge of relief that the matter was to be settled as quickly as this. But his relief ebbed away as Geoffrey Ridel rose to speak again. “Indeed we are making progress,” Ridel said smoothly. “I hope we can be equally expeditious in resolving the debts still outstanding from the king’s Toulouse campaign.”

Thomas Becket half rose in his seat, then sank back. “What debts?”

“Five hundred marks you borrowed from the King’s Grace and an additional five hundred marks you borrowed from the Jews, for which the king stood surety.”

“That money was a gift from the king, and spent in his service!”

“Have you evidence in support of that claim?” When Becket reluctantly shook his head, Ridel smiled derisively, although Henry remained impassive. After a brief deliberation, the court’s decision was rendered: that the thousand marks must be repaid. By now the king’s intent was plain to every man in the hall, and Becket had some difficulty in finding men willing to stand surety for the debt.

His face flushed with barely suppressed anger, Becket looked challengingly at Henry. “Is there anything more you require of me?” he asked, managing to invest those innocuous words with resounding echoes of contempt.

Henry’s hand closed on the arm of his chair. When he spoke, though, his voice was quite even, chillingly dispassionate. “Just one thing more. I require from you an accounting for all the proceeds of the archbishopric of Canterbury during the period between Archbishop Theobald’s death and your consecration-and an accounting for the revenues of all the vacant bishoprics and abbacies you administered during your chancellorship.”

Becket blanched and there were audible gasps. This heavy-handed display of royal power was disturbing to them all.

Ranulf was admitted into the king’s private chamber as dusk was falling. Henry looked tired but satisfied, and why not? So far all had been going his way. Becket’s protest that he’d been summoned only to answer contempt of court charges had fallen on deaf ears. He’d finally gained himself a brief reprieve by insisting that he must consult with his fellow bishops before responding to this latest demand, and the court had been temporarily adjourned. But Ranulf knew that the bloodletting would resume on Monday-unless he could convince his nephew to back off.

“Have you come to take supper with me, Uncle?”

“Yes, but first I would like a few moments with you-alone.” Henry hesitated slightly, then made a gesture of dismissal. As the other men obediently trooped out, he moved to the hearth, reached for the fire tongs, and began to stir the flames.

“Harry…” Ranulf joined the younger man at the hearth, so obviously groping for words that Henry slanted him a grimly amused look.

“Spit it out, Uncle, ere it chokes you.”

“Harry, I was troubled by what occurred in the hall this afternoon.”

“Not as troubled, I trust, as Becket.”

“In all honesty, I think every man in that hall was troubled. You were justified to charge him with contempt, but to demand a full accounting… Jesu, that might well total as much as thirty thousand marks! It could take years to sort through the records, and there are bound to be discrepancies and missing receipts and errors-”

“So?”

“So it is beginning to look as if you are aiming for nothing less than the man’s ruination!”

“I am,” Henry said, with a bluntness that took Ranulf’s breath away. “I cannot dismiss him, but I can force his resignation, and by God, I will-one way or another.”

“At what cost, Harry? Have you not thought about the damage done to the Church-and the Crown-by this feud with Becket? I understand your disappointment with his performance as archbishop. For the life of me, I cannot understand why he felt the need to make you his enemy or to take such extreme, provocative positions. Yet getting rid of him might well give you more grief than ever he could. Granted that he was a mistake, but surely he is a mistake you can live with?”

“Can Will?” Henry demanded, so bitterly that Ranulf fell silent. There was no point in arguing that Becket had not brought about Will’s death. That wound was still too raw.

Saturday morning passed in endless and increasingly acrimonious discussion. All of the bishops had gathered in Becket’s priory guest quarters and proceeded to give the archbishop advice that was distinguished only by its discord. Gilbert Foliot argued brusquely for resignation, a course of action adamantly opposed by the Bishop of Winchester, who insisted this would set an invidious precedent for future prelates and undermine canon law. Hilary of Chichester contended that compromise was clearly called for under the circumstances, and the plain-spoken Bishop of Lincoln sent shivers of alarm through the room when he blurted out that Becket’s choices had narrowed to resignation or execution. “What good will the archbishopric do him if he is dead?”

The Bishop of Winchester shook off the gloom engendered by Lincoln’s tactless remark, getting stiffly to his feet and demanding his cane. “It has been my experience,” he said dryly, “that few problems will not go away if enough money is thrown at them. I shall go to the king and see what effect two thousand marks have upon his resolve.”

Becket had been slumped in his chair, letting the arguments swirl about him. At that he raised his head sharply. “I do not have two thousand marks to give the king,” he said and Winchester patted him on the shoulder.

“Ah, but I do,” he said, and limped purposefully toward the door.

His departure brought a hiatus in the day’s heated discussions. Some of the men went off to answer nature’s call, others to find food or drink in the priory guest hall. William Fitz Stephen had been hovering inconspicuously on the sidelines. He’d been deeply shaken by the Bishop of Lincoln’s terse warning, and when he saw the young Bishop of Worcester heading for the door, he swiftly followed.

He caught up with Roger out in the priory cloisters. “My lord bishop, might I have a word with you?”

“Of course, William.” Roger gestured toward a bench in a nearby carrel. “What may I do for you?”

“You are the king’s cousin. Surely you must know his mind. My lord, how far is he prepared to go? Think you that there is any chance the archbishop’s life might be at risk?”

“No,” Roger said firmly, “I do not. The king has the Devil’s own temper, as he’d be the first to admit. But for all that, I cannot see him being deliberately cruel or unjust.”

Fitz Stephen was heartened by the certainty in Roger of Worcester’s voice and he returned to the lord archbishop’s quarters with a lighter step. There he found that Hilary of Chichester was haranguing Becket on the need to resign his position, insisting that otherwise he faced imprisonment for embezzlement. Becket paid him no heed, but another of the bishops rebuked Chichester sharply, declaring that it would be shameful for the archbishop to consider his personal safety. The afternoon dragged on, one of the longest that Fitz Stephen could remember. And then the Bishop of Winchester was back, stoop-shouldered and grim-visaged.

“Well,” he said, heaving himself into the closest chair, “he turned me down. If he does not want money, what then? Blood?”

Fitz Stephen knew that the bishop, a highly erudite man, was speaking metaphorically. Still, he flinched, and as he looked around, he saw that he was not the only one disquieted by those ominous words.

On Sunday it rained, but Monday brought flashes of sun. Henry was just finishing his breakfast when he received a message from his one-time chancellor and friend. He read it hastily, swearing under his breath, and then shouted for his uncle.

Rainald pushed reluctantly away from the table, his trencher still heaped with sausages and fried bread. “What is amiss?”

“That is what I want you to find out. Becket claims that he is too ill to attend today’s session. Find Leicester and ride to the priory, see if he is truly ailing or if this is just a ruse.”

Rainald looked wistfully at his breakfast, but knew better than to argue. Out in the castle bailey, he ran into Ranulf and coaxed him into accompanying them. As they rode through the town’s stirring streets, they speculated amongst themselves whether Becket was feigning sickness. Rainald thought it highly likely, and the Earl of Leicester was somewhat dubious, although he did concede that he could hardly blame Becket if it were so, saying that a hunted fox would always go to earth if it could. Ranulf alone felt that Becket’s purported illness was genuine, and was still submitting to his brother’s good-natured raillery as they reached the priory of St Andrew.

All of their doubts were dispelled, though, with their first glimpse of Thomas Becket. He was paler than new snow, bathed in sweat, and clearly in considerable discomfort. Propped up in bed by pillows, he regarded them with dull, hollowed eyes, too preoccupied with his body’s pain to worry about the king’s enmity. Rainald and Leicester exchanged a martyred look of resignation, and then began their interrogation of the stricken archbishop on behalf of the king, constrained all the while to use the hushed, somber tones considered proper for the sickroom.

Ignoring the glares of the archbishop’s clerks and the hostility of Master William, his physician, they extracted from Becket the information they sought: that his malady was a colic, one he’d suffered from in the past. The faint stench of vomit and Becket’s occasional involuntary gasps bolstered his credibility even more than his faltering words. Rainald and Leicester were both uncomfortable in their role as inquisitors to an obviously ailing man, but Rainald knew what his nephew the king would most want to know, and girded himself to ask it.

“Think you that you’ll be well enough to attend the court session on the morrow?”

There were outraged murmurs from the clerks. But the last words were to be Becket’s. “I will be there,” he said hoarsely, “if I have to be carried in on a litter.”

The following morning, Ranulf was standing in the bailey of Northampton Castle when the Bishop-elect of Worcester rode in. Roger handed the reins to a groom, gestured for his clerks to go on into the hall, and then headed toward Ranulf.

“How is Thomas?” Ranulf asked quietly. “Is he well enough to attend today’s session?”

Roger nodded, but there was something in his face that Ranulf caught, a fleeting emotion of surprising intensity in his usually composed nephew. “What is it?” he asked. “What you tell me will go no further, Roger, if that is your concern.”

“It is not that, for the king will hear soon enough.” Roger’s voice was low, his dark eyes troubled. “Uncle Ranulf, I fear this will end very badly. Never have I seen Harry so… so unreasonable. If we are to avoid utter calamity, the lord archbishop must be the one to compromise… and he has begun listening again to those who are urging defiance. He seems to have taken his sudden illness as… as a sign. When we called upon him this morning, he forbade us to take part in a judgment against him and ordered us to excommunicate any man who dared to lay hands upon him. Gilbert Foliot angrily objected, pointing out that the bishops would then be in violation of their own oaths to obey the Constitutions of Clarendon, oaths they’d given only at Thomas’s command. When Gilbert threatened to appeal to the Holy Father, Thomas said he had that right, but the command still stood. He then went to say Mass… and he chose the Mass of the martyr St Stephen, with the Introit, ‘Princes also did sit and speak against me.’ He was even going to come to the castle in his Mass vestments, barefoot, carrying his cross-”

Ranulf’s eyes widened. “Oh, no!”

“Fortunately he was dissuaded from that. I could not counsel him to resign, Ranulf, as some of the other bishops have done. Yet I do not want to see him openly defy the king…”

Neither did Ranulf. Both Henry and Becket were already teetering on the brink of an abyss; a single misstep could be disastrous. He’d come to Northampton haunted by his fear of a war with Wales, but it was becoming obvious that this feud between king and archbishop was equally dangerous. This was a storm that had been long hovering on the horizon. Yet now that it had blown up into such a threatening squall, most seemed taken by surprise, even Becket.

Other bishops had begun to arrive, and Roger and Ranulf hastened over to greet Gilbert Foliot. Still visibly angry, he made an effort to respond with courtesy, but abandoned the attempt after Thomas Becket rode into the bailey. It occurred to Ranulf that by now his nephew would have been told of Becket’s defiant choice of the St Stephen’s Mass; there was never a shortage of men eager to curry favor by carrying tales to a king. He decided to see if he could ease Henry’s wrath before the court session began and was starting toward the great hall when a sudden outcry stopped him in his tracks.

After dismounting, Becket had taken his heavy oaken cross from his cross-bearer, Alexander Llewelyn-to the dismay of the spectators. Several of the bishops hurried over, seeking to talk the archbishop out of such a provocative act, but Becket brushed them aside. As Ranulf turned to see, so, too, did Gilbert Foliot. Ranulf was close enough to hear the bishop brand Becket as an utter fool. Striding forward, Foliot joined the others remonstrating with Becket. Alarmed, Ranulf followed.

The Bishop of Hereford had gone so far as to grasp the cross, pleading with Becket to reconsider. When Becket clung to the cross, Foliot grabbed hold of it, too, and tried to wrest it away by force, this time calling Becket a fool to his face. At that, Roger intervened upon Becket’s behalf, only to be sharply rebuked by Foliot. Both Hereford and Foliot were still tugging at the cross, but Becket was younger and he prevailed. Pulling free, he recovered his balance and started toward the hall.

Hereford fell back, but Foliot hastened to keep pace. “If the king now draws his sword, you’ll make a fine pair!”

“I carry the cross to protect myself and the English Church,” Becket retorted, then disappeared into the hall as a new disruption broke out in the bailey. The Archbishop of York had just arrived, and he’d brought his own cross-bearer, in violation of the Pope’s ban against displaying his cross outside of his own province. If Becket’s dramatic gesture was throwing down the gauntlet to Henry, York’s was meant to upstage Becket; the two men had a rivalry that went all the way back to their youthful days in the service of Archbishop Theobald. Gilbert Foliot looked incredulously at his posturing colleague, then threw up his hands in disgust.

“What next?” he snapped. “A bearbaiting?”

Ranulf understood exactly how he felt. This council at Northampton was rapidly spiraling out of control. And they hadn’t even gotten around to discussing war with Wales yet.

Henry had been persuaded to withdraw to the upper chamber, much to Ranulf’s relief. He wondered if his nephew did not trust himself to control his temper in a face-to-face confrontation now that it was clear Becket had chosen defiance over submission. The Earl of Leicester had pulled Henry aside and was quietly urging him to show forbearance. Ranulf didn’t expect Henry to listen, but it was reassuring that there were a few voices of reason still to be found. Too many of the men advising the king and archbishop were arguing against compromise. Ranulf had tried again to convince his nephew to settle for the victory he’d already won-the contempt of court charge-but that was not what Henry wanted to hear. He had come to Northampton determined to force Becket’s resignation and was not willing to settle for anything less. Ranulf realized he could only watch as events played themselves out. He had to keep trying, though. If he’d come upon a burning house, he’d have felt compelled to fight the flames.

Becket remained below in the great hall, still clinging to his cross, but the other bishops had joined Henry in the upper chamber. They had obviously conferred amongst themselves, designating Gilbert Foliot and Hilary of Chichester as their spokesmen. “My lord king,” Foliot said, “the Archbishop of Canterbury has forbidden us to take further part in this council or to sit in judgment upon him on any secular charge. He has also commanded us to defend him with ecclesiastical censure, excommunicating any who lay hands upon him.”

Henry’s color alerted them to his rising anger. “That would put you all in violation of the Constitutions of Clarendon, which every one of you swore to obey and uphold. Need I remind you that Article Eleven compels the bishops to participate in all of the royal judgments that do not involve the shedding of blood?”

“We do understand that, my lord. But the archbishop’s command has placed us between the hammer and the anvil. We must obey you or the archbishop-”

“You think you’re being offered a choice? Think again, my lord bishop!” Henry’s eyes flicked from Foliot to the other bishops; it did not escape him that none seemed willing to meet his gaze. “I suggest you go back downstairs and talk some sense into him. My patience is fast running out.”

Foliot was convinced such talk would be a waste of breath. There was no point in protesting, though; that, too, would be a waste of breath. Followed by several of the bishops and a number of barons, he returned to the great hall, where Becket sat alone with two of his clerks, Herbert of Bosham and William Fitz Stephen. Before Foliot could launch his futile appeal, Bartholomew of Exeter fell to his knees before Becket. He was one of the most respected of the prelates and all fell silent, disquieted to see him in such an emotional state. Tears blurring his eyes, he reached out uncertainly toward Becket.

“Father,” he entreated, “spare yourself and us, your brother bishops. The king has let it be known that he will treat all who oppose him as traitors.”

Becket slowly and deliberately shook his head. “You do not understand the Will of God.”

Foliot drew an exasperated breath, audible evidence of his frustration. “We tried,” he said tersely, pivoting on his heel to go back abovestairs. Most of his colleagues followed, but some of the barons lingered and began to talk loudly amongst themselves, with the archbishop as their true audience. They reminisced about past clashes between kings and churchmen, reminding one another that King Henry’s great-grandfather, William the Bastard, had known how to tame his clerks, arresting his own brother, the Bishop of Bayeux, and condemning an Archbishop of Canterbury to perpetual imprisonment. Rannulph de Broc, who was known to loathe Becket, chimed in with a chilling atrocity story of more recent vintage. “What about the king’s father, Geoffrey, the Count of Anjou? He had the Bishop-elect of Seez gelded for his insolence!”

That was too much for Ranulf. While he had never been fond of Geoffrey of Anjou, he did know that Geoffrey had always sworn his men had exceeded their authority in the brutality of the attack upon the bishop-elect. How true that was he had no way of knowing, but he resented Rannulph de Broc’s dredging up of a twenty-year-old tragedy for the express purpose of frightening Becket into surrender. Neither of the archbishop’s clerks could hide their horror. Becket was better at dissembling, but Ranulf noticed his white-knuckled grip upon the cross. Did Becket truly think Harry was capable of cruelty of that sort? If so, he had misjudged Harry as badly as Harry had misjudged him.

Ranulf shoved past the loitering barons, meaning to reassure Becket and his clerks that Henry would never resort to such violence, even though he suspected that his words might sound hollow to them, coming from the king’s uncle. But his other nephew had lingered, too, and Roger stepped forward now to offer Becket his own assurances, pointing out that the bishops were only to sit in judgment in those cases that involved no shedding of blood. Yet Henry was insisting that the bishops take part in the judgment. What better proof could they have that he intended no charge that involved maiming or mutilation?

Ranulf couldn’t tell if Roger’s reassurances had succeeded or not. The clerks were too polite to show any skepticism, and the archbishop’s expression was difficult to decipher. Ranulf had an uneasy sense that Becket was listening to voices only he could hear. What had he said to Exeter? You do not understand the Will of God.

Above stairs the quarrel still raged between Henry and his bishops. Finally even the Bishop of Winchester agreed to go down and urge Becket to resign. He had no more luck, though, than the others, and the bishops, abandoning Becket to his fate, set about making their own peace with the king. After withdrawing for a hurried consultation, they returned to the chamber with a proposition for Henry.

Once again, Gilbert Foliot was the one chosen to speak for them. “My lord king, we find ourselves caught between Scylla and Charybdis. The Archbishop of Canterbury has placed us in an impossible position. First he bade us vow to obey the Constitutions of Clarendon and now he forbids us to honor that promise. But we owe him a duty of obedience and risk excommunication if we refuse to heed his prohibition.”

“Have you thought about what you risk if you do heed Becket?”

“Indeed, my lord king. Therefore, we offer a compromise. If you will excuse us from pronouncing judgment upon the archbishop, we will forthwith make an appeal to the Holy Father, accusing the archbishop of perjuring himself and forcing us to violate our own oaths. We will further promise to seek his removal.”

More than a few of the bishops then held their breath. Henry did not keep them in suspense, though. After a moment to consider, he nodded. “So be it,” he said, although he was unable to resist adding a sardonic aside. “I’d not want it said that I showed as little compassion for my bishops as does the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

William Fitz Stephen was seated at Thomas Becket’s feet, Herbert of Bosham on the archbishop’s other side. The tension and turmoil had given Fitz Stephen a pounding headache, and from the way a vein was throbbing in the archbishop’s temple, he suspected that Lord Thomas suffered from the same malady. They were sitting in silence, for after Herbert had urged Becket to excommunicate his enemies, the marshals had warned them that no one was to speak to the archbishop. They could only wait, dreading what was being deliberated abovestairs. Fitz Stephen cast admiring glances at his lord, marveling that he could seem so composed in the face of such blatant injustice. When their eyes met, Becket smiled tiredly and Fitz Stephen found himself fighting back tears. Bowing his head, he whispered, “ ‘Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven,’ ” only to be silenced by one of the marshals.

They were soon joined by the bishops, who’d been excused from further participation in the proceedings, and the waiting resumed. Occasionally a muffled shout of “Traitor” carried down to the hall and Fitz Stephen shuddered. His lord did not respond, though; his earlier agitation and uncertainty were gone, or well camouflaged in an almost other-worldly appearance of calm. The other bishops showed far less patience, fidgeting and murmuring amongst themselves. Herbert was glaring openly at them, making no effort to hide his disdain. Fitz Stephen was less judgmental; excepting the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Chichester, he felt they were well intentioned. While it was a great pity they’d not shown more backbone, he could not in all fairness fault them for it. There were few men walking God’s earth with the courage to defy a king, especially this king.

When they finally heard the door open and the thud of footsteps on the stairs, Fitz Stephen, Herbert, and several of the bishops jumped to their feet. Thomas Becket remained seated, though, still firmly gripping his cross. Men began to crowd into the hall and Fitz Stephen’s last quavering hope was snuffed out by the sight of the triumphant grins and smirks of those barons most hostile to his lord.

There was no joy to be found in the somber expression of the Earl of Leicester. Moving with a heavy tread, as if he felt the full weight of his sixty years, he approached the archbishop. “It has fallen upon me,” he said gravely, “to inform you, my lord archbishop, that you have been found guilty of treason. The sentence passed by the court is that you be-”

“I will hear no judgment, for I have appealed to His Holiness, the Pope.”

Leicester was momentarily thrown off-stride by Becket’s interruption. His hesitation making it clear that this was a task he was loath to perform, he started to speak again and again Becket cut him off. Leicester turned to Rainald as if for assistance. Rainald merely shook his head. At that the Bishop of Chichester intervened, but not on behalf of his beleaguered colleague.

“Your treason is manifest to all,” he told Becket, with a sorrowful air that only emphasized the harshness of his words, “and you must hear the court’s sentence.”

“Who are you to tell me that?” Becket rose to his feet, dismissing Chichester with a scornful curl of his lip. For a moment, his eyes raked the hall and such was the power of his personality that even the most virulent of his foes fell silent. “Judgment is given after a trial,” he said, speaking loudly enough so that all could hear. “I have done no pleading today. I was summoned for no suit except that of John Marshal, who did not even put in an appearance.” When Leicester would have spoken, he held up his hand, halting the words in a gesture both dramatic and imperious. “I forbid you by the authority that Holy Church gives me over you to pass judgment upon me.”

Leicester, looking more uncomfortable by the moment, conceded defeat and stepped back. But Rannulph de Broc was uncowed. Pushing his way forward, he said with a sneer, “What authority can a lowborn traitor exercise?”

Becket’s face flooded with color. “You’re one to talk! One of your family got himself hanged for a felony, which is more than ever happened to any of my kin.”

De Broc sputtered, momentarily at a loss for words, and some of the other men grinned, for he had few friends, mainly allies of expedience. Becket took advantage of the pause, raising his cross and starting toward the door. He moved at a deliberate, unhurried pace, head high and shoulders squared, and as his clerks hastened to catch up with him, Fitz Stephen began to hope that they would be able to make a dignified, peaceful departure. But then Becket tripped over a bundle of faggots by the hearth and almost fell.

That small stumble was enough to embolden his foes. Rannulph de Broc lunged forward, shouting, “Perjurer!” The cry was quickly taken up by others and Becket was soon surrounded by angry, jeering men, some of them pelting him with rushes scooped up from the floor. Henry’s half-brother, Hamelin, his face contorted with hatred, barred Becket’s way, crying “Traitor!” in a hoarse voice that was an eerie echo of the king’s.

At that, Becket’s self-control snapped and he turned on Hamelin in a sudden fury. “Lackey,” he raged, “bastard! If I were not a priest, you’d pay dearly for that insult!”

By now Leicester and an equally alarmed Rainald had shouldered their way through the men encircling Becket, shouting for them to get back, and as they grudgingly gave way, Becket and his clerks were able to reach the door. The dignified departure Fitz Stephen had hoped for had taken on the urgency of an escape, and when Herbert of Bosham could not find his horse, he scrambled up behind Becket onto the archbishop’s stallion. But no attempts were made to stop them from leaving the castle, and there was no pursuit as they rode back to their lodgings at St Andrew’s Priory. Indeed, their retreat soon turned into a triumphant procession, with the townspeople flocking out to cheer for Becket and seek his blessings.

Ranulf had been tossing and turning for hours. All around him, the aisles of the great hall were crowded with pallets and the blanket-clad forms of sleeping men. But for Ranulf, sleep would not come. Finally surrendering unconditionally to his insomnia, he got to his feet and padded silently through the floor rushes toward the door. Trying not to awaken the closest sleepers, he pulled the bolt back and unfastened the latch. Cracking the door, he looked out in surprise. He’d known it was raining, hearing the thrumming upon the roof shingles. Until now, though, he’d not realized how severe the storm was. Torrential rains were flooding the bailey, the wind keening like a lost soul, and lightning flared somewhere over the town, searing the black sky with blue-white sparks.

Hastily crossing himself, Ranulf shut the door, wondering how many others were lying wakeful and uneasy this night. As midnight drew nigh, it seemed as if the very heavens were warring upon Northampton. How many would see this savage storm as an ill omen, a sign of the Almighty’s displeasure at the shabby way His servant had been treated in the king’s court?

Since he could not go outside, he looked around for another refuge, eventually settling upon the chapel adjoining the hall, for there at least, he’d find no snoring sleepers. Groping his way forward, he creaked open the door. A lone candle still flickered upon the altar and a rushlight burned in a wall sconce, but the chapel was swirling in shadows; even the wind’s wail was muffled here, the storm’s fury held at bay by the thick stone walls, the lingering grace of countless heartfelt prayers for God’s Mercy. Ranulf ’s troubled spirit eased and he drew a breath of solace. But as he moved toward the altar, a ghostly figure emerged suddenly from the shadows to intercept him.

Ranulf recoiled with a startled gasp. “Christ Jesus, Roger, I thought you were one of the Devil’s own come to claim my soul!”

His nephew smiled wryly. “It would not surprise me, Uncle, to find the Devil stalking Northampton this night. But your soul is safe with me.” He gestured toward several prayer cushions piled in a corner. “I have made a snug nest for myself, as you can see. I even have a flask of wine. Care to join me?”

“Why not?” Seating themselves on the cushions, resting their backs against the wall, they took turns drinking from Roger’s flask. “Why are you here at the castle?” Ranulf asked, since that was a safer question than why Roger thought demons were abroad in the night. “I thought you were lodging in the town.”

“And I thought you were staying with the canons?”

“I was, but I stayed so late tonight in Harry’s chambers that it seemed easier just to spend the night here. You, too?”

Roger took another swig of wine, his shoulders slumping. “I went to the priory,” he said, “to see how Thomas was faring. Not only have many of the knights of his household asked to be released from his service, but more than forty of his clerks have abandoned him, too. Craven louts, the lot of them,” he added, with unexpected venom.

“Does it truly surprise you that men should fear the contagion of the king’s disfavor as much as they do leprosy or the spotted fever?”

“No…,” Roger conceded. “I do not blame the knights for looking to their own interests. But it is shameful for men of God to behave like rats fleeing a sinking ship.”

Ranulf agreed that it was and reached over to reclaim the flask. “So what brought you back to the castle?”

“Thomas asked me and the Bishops of Hereford and Rochester to go to the king and seek a safe-conduct for his journey back to Canterbury.” Roger was quiet then for a time. “Harry said that he’d answer us on the morrow.”

“And that worries you? It should not,” Ranulf insisted. “He’ll give a safe conduct. When Rainald and I told him of the ugly scene in the great hall and of the threats made against Becket by some of the barons, he immediately sent forth heralds to proclaim that the archbishop was not to be harmed or harassed. It is Becket’s humiliation he seeks, not his blood. Do you doubt that, Roger?”

“No… I suppose not. It is just that… that this quarrel with Thomas has brought out the worst in Harry, a side of his nature I’ve not seen before and would that I not see again.”

Ranulf could not dispute that, as much as he wanted to. He refrained from making the natural rejoinder: that the archbishopric had brought out the worst in Becket. Enough heedless words had already been said during these days at Northampton. They were sitting under the overhead rushlight, and its muted glow magnified the hollowed cheekbones and grimly set lines of Roger’s mouth. Ranulf shifted sideways. “You have the look of a man with much on his mind, none of it pleasant. If talking will help, I’m willing to listen. It is the least I can do after drinking your wine.”

Roger’s smile flickered, briefly. For a long moment, his eyes searched Ranulf’s face. He looked so much like his sire that Ranulf felt the pang of an old grief. “I loved your father, lad,” he said quietly, “as I’ve loved few men in this life.”

“I know that, Uncle. I know, too, that you could not love Harry more if he were your own son.”

Ranulf set down the flask between them. “What you tell me goes no further than this chapel. You have my word upon that, Roger.”

Roger let his breath out slowly. “I might be wrong,” he said, “but I think that Thomas means to flee tonight.”

“Understandable after what happened today. What makes you think so?”

“Whilst I was at the priory, I overheard two of his clerks talking. They were huddled in one of the carrels out in the cloisters and my approach caught them unaware. Ere they noticed me and went mute, I heard them say something about midnight and an unguarded gate in the town.”

Roger seemed relieved to have unburdened himself. Almost at once, though, he reached out and caught Ranulf’s arm. “Uncle, you’ll say nothing of this? If Harry were to find out…”

“You need not fret, lad. I’ll not break faith with you. Even if I had not given my word, I do not think that I’d want to deliver Becket into Harry’s hands-for both their sakes.”

“Amen,” Roger said, and after that they drank in silence while the castle slept and the storm raged through the night.

At the height of the storm, Thomas Becket and three others slipped out of the town’s unguarded north gate and spurred their horses toward Lincoln. From there, he began a slow, circuitous journey for the coast, disguised as a monk. On All Soul’s Day, the second of November, he and his three companions set sail from the port of Sandwich. Manning a small boat in heavy seas, they came ashore safely in Flanders at dusk.

Henry did not actively pursue the fugitive archbishop, contenting himself with putting the ports under watch. Nor had he exploded in one of his famous fits of rage upon being told of Becket’s escape. In some ways, his response was even more chilling to the archbishop’s partisans. Eyes narrowing, he’d said laconically, “I have not done with him yet.”

To his lord and friend Louis, illustrious King of the French, from Henry, King of the English and Duke of the Normans and Aquitanians, and Count of the Angevins, greetings and affection.

Know that Thomas, who was Archbishop of Canterbury, has been publicly adjudged in my court, by full council of the barons of my realm, to be a wicked and perjured traitor to me, and under the manifest name of traitor has wickedly departed, as my messengers will more fully tell you.

Wherefore I earnestly entreat you not to permit a man guilty of such infamous crimes and treasons, or his men, to remain in your kingdom; and let not this great enemy of mine, so it please you, have any counsel or aid from you or yours, even as I would not give any such help to your enemies in my realm or allow it to be given. Rather, if it please you, help me to take vengeance upon my great enemy for this affront, and look to my honor, as you would have me do for you if there were need of it.

Done at Northampton.

Henry then turned his attention to the rebellion in Wales. His council at Northampton resolved upon a summer campaign against Rhys ap Gruffydd and Owain Gwynedd, and his lords pledged to supply large numbers of infantry, more suitable than armor-clad knights for the hit-and-run warfare waged by the Welsh. Mercenaries were to be hired from Flanders and a fleet equipped at Dublin. The Marcher barons departed Northampton secure in the knowledge that there was to be a reckoning with the troublesome Welsh at long last.

After the council at Northampton drew to an end, Henry sent a delegation across the Channel to see the French king at Compiegne and then on to the Pope, still in exile at Sens. By an irony of chance, they sailed from Dover on the very day that Thomas Becket made his escape from Sandwich. Henry’s envoys were distinguished-including the Bishops of London, Worcester, Chichester, and Exeter, the Archbishop of York, and the Earl of Arundel-but their mission was a failure. Returning to England, they began the lugubrious task of finding the king and breaking the bad news to him. Perhaps because they were in no hurry to deliver disappointment, they did not overtake Henry until Christmas Eve, where he and Eleanor were keeping court at Marlborough Castle.

A light snowfall powdered the castle grounds and a fire burned brightly in the hearth of the king’s solar, which was festively adorned with holly, mistletoe, and evergreen boughs. But every spark of Christmas cheer had been quenched with the first halting words of Gilbert Foliot, for even his eloquence could find no way to make his news palatable: that Becket had been warmly received by both the Pope and the French king.

Henry was standing so close to the fireplace that he was in danger of being singed by its dancing flames, but he seemed oblivious of the heat. “Tell me,” he said tersely. “Hold nothing back.”

“We met with the French king at his castle of Compiegne, where we delivered your letter. I regret to say, my liege, that his piety has adversely affected his judgment. His natural inclination is to give any priest the benefit of every doubt, even when presented with proof of perjury and broken faith.”

That was a diplomatic and discreet rendering of the French king’s response, and none knew it better than Eleanor, who knew her first husband all too well. She glanced toward Henry to see if he was reading between the lines. But then the Bishop of Chichester tactlessly intervened with the truth.

“We sought to make him privy to the facts, Your Grace, but he was not wont to listen. ‘Who deposed the Archbishop of Canterbury?’ he asked. He said he was as much a king as the King of the English, but he did not have the power to depose the least of the clerks in his realm. Not only did he offer Becket asylum in his domains, he wrote to the Pope on Becket’s behalf, urging him to receive the archbishop with kindness and pay no heed to unjust accusations against him.”

Henry spat out an extremely profane oath, but whom it was meant for-Becket or the French king-none could be sure. “Go on,” he said harshly. “What happened at Sens?”

As Chichester showed no inclination to relinquish center stage and Foliot was willing to let him be the bearer of bad tidings, he was the one to tell Henry the rest, the worst. “We met with the Holy Father and the cardinals, and as you bade us, my liege, we privately urged the Archbishop of Canterbury’s deposition. Whilst I do not doubt that many of the cardinals would not mourn Becket’s departure, the Pope insisted that he could take no action until he heard the archbishop’s account of the Northampton council. Becket soon arrived, with a retinue of three hundred horsemen provided by the French king. He threw himself at the Holy Father’s feet, holding out a chirograph of the Constitutions of Clarendon.”

Chichester had always prided himself upon his remarkable memory and he could not resist quoting now from Becket’s own words. “He said, ‘Behold, Holy Father, the customs of the King of the English, opposed to the canons and decretals and even the laws of secular princes, for which we are driven to endure exile.’ He then read out the clauses of the Constitutions, one by one, offering his own critical analysis of each article, and although Cardinal William of Pavia made a spirited defense of the provisions, Becket’s view prevailed. He then…”

Chichester paused for maximum dramatic impact and Henry’s eyes flashed dangerously. “What?”

“Becket was ever one for the grand gesture,” Chichester said scornfully. “He knelt again, began to weep, and resigned the archbishopric of Canterbury for the good of the Church, he said, and offered his archiepiscopal ring to the Holy Father. Alas, my liege, the Holy Father was moved by his tears and returned the ring, saying ‘Receive anew at our hands the cure of the episcopal office.’ ”

Everyone in the solar understood the significance of the Pope’s act. The appeal of the other bishops for Becket’s deposition would come to naught. Nor would Henry’s complaints to the Holy See. Thomas Becket would remain as Archbishop of Canterbury, with the Pope’s blessings-and there was nothing Henry could do about it.

There was a prolonged silence, fraught with foreboding, and then the inevitable explosion. Henry’s tempers were known to them all, but even Eleanor had never seen him in such a spectacular rage as this. A sweep of his arm sent the contents of the trestle table flying off into space, books and quill pens and an open inkwell spilling into the floor rushes. With a crash that reverberated throughout the entire room, the table followed, barely missing one of Eleanor’s alarmed greyhounds. The men shrank back from this violent display of royal wrath, only the king’s wife and his cousin Roger standing their ground. Henry overturned a chair, then swung around upon Gilbert Foliot.

“I shall issue an order confiscating all of that whoreson’s possessions down to the last farthing and the forfeiture of the archbishopric. No bishop of mine shall pay revenues to any of Becket’s clerks holding prebends within their sees. Will any Church objections be raised to my writ, my lord bishop?”

Foliot swallowed. “No, my liege… no objections.”

“Now… what burrow has our snake found for the winter? Is he still at the Papal Curia in Sens?”

“No, Your Grace,” Foliot said swiftly, grateful that he had at least a scrap of good news to offer Henry. “The Holy Father’s actions were not as one-sided as the Bishop of Chichester related. Whilst he did refuse Becket’s resignation and condemned the Constitutions of Clarendon, he did not censure me or my fellow bishops as Becket expected, and he most certainly did not make him welcome at the papal court. He has sent Becket off to the Cistercian abbey at Pontigny. So you see, my liege, all is not as bleak as it might first have seemed.”

His words did not have the desired effect. They did not even seem to have registered with Henry. “Pontigny,” he echoed. “Good… let them go there then and seek shelter from him.”

Foliot looked confused; nor was he the only one. “Who, my lord king?” the Earl of Arundel asked in bewilderment. “Who shall seek shelter?”

“All of Becket’s household still in England, and their kin as well. They are to join him in exile, every last one of them. Let him see for himself what misery he has brought upon his own. And let the French king provide for their bread if Becket will not!”

The others were speechless, staring at him in disbelief. Oddly enough, it was the opportunist who spoke up first. Hilary of Chichester cleared his throat, then said hesitantly, “My liege, I implore you to reconsider. If you banish all of Becket’s family and clerks, I fear you will be harshly judged for it by your enemies.”

“Let them! You think I care?”

“My liege…” Gilbert Foliot had never lacked for courage-until now. “I think once your anger cools, you will not want to-”

“Who are you to tell me what I want? Becket should have thought of the consequences when he fled in the night like a thief. There is always a price to be paid for betrayal and he is about to find that out, by God!” The disapproval Henry saw reflected on their faces only fanned his fury all the higher. Gesturing toward the door, he ordered them all out. “After failing me so abysmally in Compiegne and Sens, why should I listen to you now? Go on, get out!”

They did, some hastily enough to compromise their dignity. Only Roger dared to protest further. Reaching the door, he paused, meeting his cousin’s eyes without flinching. “This is wrong, Harry,” he said in a low voice. “Wrong and unjust.”

He did not linger; he knew better than that. As the door closed behind him, Henry swore again. But before he could react, a cushion was suddenly shoved into his hand. “Here,” Eleanor said. “If you must destroy something, fling this about. It is much easier to mend a pillow than a table.”

Henry was not amused. “I’m glad you’re taking it in such good humor that I’ve just been stabbed in the back by that gutless weasel you married!”

“A pity there is no way you can blame Becket’s misdeeds on me, too!”

“If you are about to remind me that you opposed Becket’s elevation to the archbishopric, trust me, Eleanor-this is not the time!”

“Actually, I have a far more recent grievance. I entreated you not to send Louis that letter, warned you it would do you more harm than good, did I not? And as usual, you paid me no heed whatsoever!”

“For the love of Christ, woman, let it lie! Can you not see that I’m in no mood to deal with this now?”

“Fine,” she said tartly. “Forget about Louis and the fact that you were the one to provide the dagger for that back-stabbing. Let’s talk, instead, about your plan to banish those poor souls whose only offense is that they are related to Becket either by blood or service. Surely you do not mean that, Harry.”

“Surely I do.”

“Then this interminable feuding with Becket has well and truly addled your mind!”

“This is none of your concern! I am heartily sick of your meddling, Eleanor, will have no more of it!”

“If you bid me be silent, then of course I will,” Eleanor responded, with poisonous sweetness, “for like any dutiful and devoted wife, I live only to please you.” With a deep, graceful curtsy, she swept toward the door, where she paused, her hand on the latch, a quizzical smile upon her face. “About that ‘weasel’ I married… You were referring to Louis, were you not?”

He glared at her. “Damn you, Eleanor!”

“Likewise, my love,” she retorted, and left him alone in the solar.

On the day after Christmas, Henry followed through on his threat and expelled as many as four hundred people, including Becket’s sisters and nephews, his clerks and servants and their families. A steady steam of refugees made their miserable way to Pontigny and Thomas Becket was indeed distressed, as Henry had intended. But it was a Pyrrhic victory, one that left a lasting stain upon Henry’s honor and his reputation.

Henry and Eleanor patched up their Christmas Eve quarrel the way they usually did, in bed, and when they departed Marlborough, she was pregnant again.