Time and Chance

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

January 1169

Montmirail, France

Henry was happy that day, happier than he’d been in a long time, convinced that the Almighty had looked with favor upon this council of kings, for even the weather was cooperating. Above his head, the sky was the glowing shade of the lapis lazuli gemstone that shimmered upon his left hand, a gift from the French monarch. The air was cold but clear, free of the hearth-smoke that hovered over the streets of Montmirail, and the open fields were revived by a dusting of powdery snow, camouflaging the drab ugliness of winter mud and withered grass. The banners of England and France fluttered in the wind, proud symbols of power and sovereignty, but nothing gave him more pleasure than the sight of his sons.

They stood as tall and straight as lances, prideful and spirited and bred for greatness. Hal, already handsome enough to attract female eyes, his the fair coloring and easy grace of his grandsire. Richard, Eleanor’s favored cub, with a lion’s ruddy mane and a lion’s strut. Geoffrey, tawny-haired and sharp-eyed, of smaller stature than his brothers, but lacking only years, not confidence. Sons to do a man proud, the true treasure of his kingship.

They had done their homage to the French king, showing a poise that belied their youth: Hal for Normandy, Anjou, and Brittany; Richard for Aquitaine. Richard was then plight-trothed to Louis’s daughter Alys, a dark-eyed lively child who giggled and squirmed her way through the solemn ceremony of betrothal. Later in the year, Geoffrey would do homage to Hal for Brittany, thus assuring his ascendancy to the Breton duchy. Watching as his sons basked in the winter sunlight and the admiration of the highborn spectators, it was easy for Henry to believe that a dream once glimmering on the far horizon was now within his grasp. His heirs would not have to fight for their inheritances. Their rights would be recognized by one and all during his own lifetime, beginning with this public Epiphany Day acknowledgment by their liege-lord, the King of France.

Raising his hand, Henry signaled and his gift was led out. Murmurs swept the crowd. The pony was small even by the standards of its breed, less than twelve hands high at the withers, its coat groomed to an ebony sheen, saddle pommel and cantle lavishly decorated with jewels. The little animal submitted composedly to the French king’s delighted inspection, displaying a temperament calm enough to reassure the most anxious of fathers. They were an ancient breed, roaming the moorlands of England’s West Country since time immemorial, Henry explained, ideally suited for a lad’s first mount. Louis thought so, too, and beamed as all eyes focused upon the little boy who held his heart. Philippe Auguste, the son whose birth had seemed so miraculous to his father and subjects that he was called Dieu-Donne. The God-Given.

Philippe was in his fourth year, but so undersized that he looked younger. He seemed reluctant and had to be coaxed forward by his father. When Louis lifted him up onto the pony, he froze and then started to cry. Henry was taken aback, for his sons had been eager to ride as soon as they could walk. Louis’s attempts to reassure the little boy were futile, his tears giving way to hiccuping sobs and then to loud wails.

Henry’s sons shared his astonishment. They were soon nudging one another and grinning; fortunately he was close enough to quell their amusement with a warning glare. Louis had plucked his son from the saddle, but Philippe did not seem to realize that he was no longer astride the pony and his shrieks continued until he felt the familiar arms of his nurse. As she carried him away, an awkward silence settled over the field.

Henry took in the glowering looks of the French and knew they suspected him of masterminding this debacle. He knew, too, that his denials would count for naught; his enemies invariably ascribed diabolical motives to his every act. But it had never occurred to him that Philippe would have a fear of horses. Moving over to Louis, he did his best to act as if Philippe’s terror was perfectly natural, commenting casually that the lad was just a little too young yet. Louis nodded distractedly, his eyes following the small figure of his son surrounded by attendants as he was borne from the field.

Henry glanced again at his own boys. They were perfectly at ease in such a public setting, their eyes bright with suppressed laughter, and he felt a surge of fierce joy that these young fledglings were his. He wished suddenly that Eleanor could have been here to see how their sons shone at the French court. How proud she would have been, and how disdainful of Louis’s timid little whelp.

Becoming aware that someone had drawn near, Henry turned. William of Blois, the newly consecrated Bishop of Sens, was not a man whose company he enjoyed, yet another of Stephen’s troublesome nephews, nursing a grudge that should have been buried with Stephen. The bishop was watching him intently, as if searching for signs of satisfaction, but Henry was not about to give him any. Smiling blandly, he said that it had been a good day, indeed, a day in which the seeds of a lasting peace were sown.

The bishop could hardly disagree and responded with an innocuous platitude of his own. But then he wiped the smile from Henry’s face by saying coolly, “Let us hope that another peace will be made on the morrow, when you meet with His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

The weather on the following day mirrored Henry’s unsettled mood, the sky blotched with clouds the color of snow, occasional patches of pale blue hinting at a possible reemergence of the sun. Henry and Louis were flanked by the papal legates who had arranged this meeting: Simon, Prior of Mont-Dieu, Bernard de la Coudre, Prior of Grandmont, and Engelbert, Prior of Val-St-Pierre. The legates were scanning the crowd intently, for they had a stake in this outcome, too. If they could reconcile England’s king with his rebellious archbishop, they’d earn the Pope’s undying gratitude. This was a quarrel that only Thomas Becket seemed inclined to pursue; everyone else simply wanted it to go away, especially now that it jeopardized hopes of another holy quest. Henry had spoken of taking the Cross, but how likely was that if his feuding with Becket continued to occupy his time and energy? It had been a long and tiresome struggle, but the papal envoys had eventually convinced the archbishop that his protracted exile served neither his own interests nor those of his Church.

Henry was not as confident as the papal legates that Becket was finally willing to compromise. They had assured him this was so, that the archbishop would make a public submission without qualification or reservation, promising him that there would be no repeat of that restrictive clause Henry had found so odious at Clarendon, “saving our order.”

Henry harbored some doubts, though, for he’d bribed a man who’d been privy to their discussions with Becket, and his spy had reported to him that Becket had wanted to substitute “saving our order” with a phrase even more inflammatory: “saving the Honor of God.” The legates had been able to persuade Becket that this proviso was not only unacceptable but offensive, too, implying as it did that the king cared naught for the Almighty’s Honor. Henry waited now to find out if the papal mission had been as successful as they claimed.

He hoped they were right. He, too, had grown weary of the unending discord. Becket had become a distraction, a tool for his enemies to use against him, a needless bone of contention with the Church. He would never understand why the other man had betrayed him, for that was how he still saw it. And until the day he died, this was a wound that would be imperfectly healed, sore to the touch. He had no intention of repudiating the Constitutions of Clarendon and suspected that Becket’s opposition to them had not weakened during his years of exile. But the Pope governed on a far greater stage than the one Thomas Becket occupied, especially now that he’d been able to return to Italy. The King of England was a more valuable ally than one aggrieved archbishop, and a peace cobbled together with strategic silences and calculated omissions was still better than no peace at all.

The Bishop of Sens had just come into view, and as the crowd parted, Henry saw Thomas Becket. This was their first meeting in more than four years and his immediate, unbidden thought was that those years had not been kind to Thomas. Becket had always been of slender build; now he was gaunt. Fair-skinned by nature, his was now the sickly pallor of the ailing. Henry suddenly believed those stories he’d heard of Becket’s deprivations and denials, no longer dismissed them as self-promotion. The archbishop’s eyes were hollowed, his dark hair well salted with silver, and his black beard had gone white. Only his height was as Henry had remembered. His throat tightened unexpectedly; could this be the man who’d once playfully tussled with him over a crimson cloak?

He was not the only one to be assailed by memories. For a moment at least, both of their defenses were down and he saw his own regrets reflected in the other man’s face. One of Becket’s clerks was tugging at his lord’s sleeve, whispering urgently in his ear; Henry recognized the florid face and fashionable figure of Herbert of Bosham. Becket made no response, keeping his eyes fixed upon Henry’s face. And then he was striding forward, his somber black mantle reminding Henry anew of that long-lost scarlet cloak. Dropping to his knees in the snow, Becket said huskily:

“My lord king, I place myself in God’s Hands and yours, for God’s Honor and your own.”

Henry at once reached out, raising the archbishop to his feet, and their attentive audience released pent-up breaths, beginning to believe that this meeting at Montmirail might actually begin the healing between them. Smiling, the French king bade the archbishop welcome, and cordiality reigned. When the time came for Becket’s act of submission, the sun slid from behind a cloud and all took that as a good omen.

“My lord king, so far as this dispute which lies between us is concerned, here in the presence of the King of France and the bishops and barons and the young princes, your sons, I cast myself upon your mercy and your judgment…” Becket paused, drawing a deep, deliberate breath before saying, very clearly and distinctly, “Saving the Honor of my God.”

There were audible gasps. The French king’s expression of dismay was eclipsed only by the horror on the faces of the papal legates. Henry alone felt no real surprise, just an intense sense of disappointment, and then utter rage. His temper burst forth in a blaze of profanity, scorching enough to make men marvel that the snow had not begun to melt. Moving swiftly to Becket’s side, the papal legate from the priory of Grandmont began to admonish him in low, wrathful tones, soon joined by his colleagues. The archbishop bore their rebukes and recriminations in silence, watching Henry all the while. The rest of the spectators did, too, believing the peace conference was at an end.

By then, Henry had gotten his rage back under rein. Glancing around, he saw that for once public sentiment was completely on his side; even Louis was staring at Becket as if he’d grown horns. Turning toward the French king, Henry said in a voice still tight with anger:

“It should be noted that the archbishop deserted his Church of his own free will. I did not drive him into exile. He fled of his own accord in the dead of night. And now he tells you that his cause is the Church’s cause and that he is suffering for the sake of righteousness. The truth is that I have always been willing, and still am willing, to allow him to rule over the Church with as much freedom as any of those saintly archbishops who came before him.”

“That is not so,” Becket interjected, but Henry paid him no heed.

“My lord King of France, attend me if you please. Whatever displeases him, he will declare contrary to the Honor of God and thus he will ever have the last word with me. But lest I seem in any way not to honor God, I offer this proposal. There have been before me many Kings of England, some with more, some with less authority than mine. And there have been many Archbishops of Canterbury, great and holy men. Let him yield to me what the greatest and most saintly of his predecessors conceded to the least of mine and I shall be satisfied.”

Henry saw at once that he had carried the day. The words “fair” and “reasonable” could be heard, heads nodding in agreement, eyes turning expectantly toward Thomas Becket, awaiting his response. When he remained silent, the disapproving murmurs grew louder. Somewhat to Henry’s surprise, the coup de grace was delivered by the French king. Sounding more sorrowful than angry, Louis said quietly:

“My lord archbishop, the peace you desire has been offered. Why do you hesitate? Do you wish to be more than a saint?”

Neither the papal legates nor the French king were able to persuade Becket to retreat from the line he’d drawn, and the Montmirail conference broke up in disarray and ill will, most of it directed against the archbishop.

An Ascension Day mass was in progress in St Paul’s Cathedral. The priest had just kissed the altar stone and was now moving toward the right side of the High Altar for the Introit. In the back of the church, a young Frenchman clutched his mantle more tightly against his chest. Although it was a warm May morning, he was cold to the bone, shivering in the shadows as he awaited his moment. His name was Meurisse Berenger and he was in London on a holy mission. He knew full well that if he were caught, he could expect no mercy, but his courage was nourished by his faith, his utter certainty that he was on the side of right, doing battle with the ungodly.

“Kyrie eleison.” The parishioners dutifully chanted the Greek litany, and Berenger silently mouthed the words, not having saliva enough for speech. Lord, have mercy on us. “Christe eleison.” Christ, have mercy on us. Even as the familiar prayer echoed in his head, he was straining to see the High Altar. The priest was extending his hands, the beautiful Latin phrases rolling musically off his tongue: “Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonai voluntatis.” Berenger closed his eyes and tried not to think of the Antichrist, England’s evil king. When he opened them again, he was shocked to hear the concluding words of the Gospel. So close now to the Offertory, so close!

After kissing the altar again, the priest turned to face the worshippers. “Dominus vobiscum.” Berenger slid a hand under his mantle, drawing out a packet wrapped in cloth. The penitents were withdrawing, as the remainder of the Mass was only for the faithful. People had moved into the aisle, approaching the High Altar with their oblations, and Berenger joined their ranks.

The priest was smiling, murmuring words of approval. When Berenger held out his bundle, it seemed to take forever until the priest reached for it, almost as if time itself had stopped. But then the letters were in the priest’s hand and Berenger grabbed the startled man’s wrist, holding his arm aloft so all could see.

“Let all men know,” he cried loudly, “that your bishop, Gilbert Foliot, has been excommunicated by Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury and Apostolic Legate!”

Escaping from St Paul’s in the ensuing confusion, Berenger made his way to York, where he again proclaimed the bishop’s sentence of excommunication and again eluded capture. Gilbert Foliot had anticipated just such an action and had already appealed to the Pope. But he was badly shaken by the anathema and scrupulously obeyed the strictures placed upon him, not only shunning Mass but going so far as to destroy his eating utensils after every meal lest they be used by others, for no good Christian could break bread with an excommunicate.

In addition to the Bishop of London, Becket had excommunicated numerous others, including the Bishop of Salisbury; Henry’s justiciar, Richard de Lucy; Geoffrey Ridel, his chancellor; the Earl of Norfolk; the Keeper of the Seal; and Rannulph de Broc. Henry was enraged. The Pope was no happier than Henry with these arbitrary excommunications and strongly urged Becket to rescind the sentences. The archbishop refused and warned that his next act would be to excommunicate the English king himself and lay all England under interdict.

The Benedictine Abbey of Marmoutier was one of the most celebrated in Henry’s domains. For the past two years, it had been home to the Bishop of Worcester. Roger had voluntarily exiled himself from England in a brave but vain attempt to convince Henry to make peace with Thomas Becket. On this blustery, cold night in early December, Roger looked back upon a year of failures, beginning with the ill-fated conference at Montmirail and ending a fortnight ago with an equally unproductive meeting at Montmartre. Roger was by nature an optimist, but he was finding it harder and harder to hold on to hope, to believe that either his cousin the king or his friend the archbishop would ever compromise enough to reconcile their differences.

He was in good spirits, though, on this particular evening. The future looked bleak indeed, and wind-lashed sleet was thudding upon the roof, but his guest quarters were warmed by a blazing hearth, his table was laden with a surprisingly tasty Advent supper, and best of all, he had the company of a woman he loved deeply, a woman who could have coaxed laughter from Job.

Maud leaned forward, resting her chin on her laced fingers as she studied her brother with mock solemnity. “Well, you look as if you survived the bloodletting at Montmartre with all your body parts intact. So tell me… who disgraced himself the most, dear Cousin Harry or the saintly Becket?”

Roger shook his head with a wry smile. “Actually, they never even met face to face. The archbishop and his clerks were sequestered within the Chapel of Holy Martyrs, whilst Harry and the French king and the papal legates and bishops were gathered outside.”

Maud was delighted; this was a detail she hadn’t heard. “Did they really keep Harry and Becket apart? That makes sense with dogs and cats, mayhap, but with kings and archbishops?”

Roger shrugged. “I overheard one of the papal legates muttering that the Montmartre peace council would be a great success if only they did not have to invite the English king or his archbishop. He laughed then, but without much humor.”

“So how was it managed? Did they send messengers running back and forth with proposals and counterproposals?” Maud asked and laughed outright when Roger nodded. “What else? Tell me more.”

“I hardly think it necessary,” he observed. “Did you not just come from Eleanor’s court at Poitiers?”

“We know that the meeting came to naught, that Becket demanded thirty thousand marks in arrears of his confiscated estates, that Harry offered to arbitrate the matter at either the court of the French king or the University of Paris, that Becket showed his usual skittishness about arbitration and insisted he preferred a ‘friendly’ settlement to litigation.”

She paused for breath and Roger said reprovingly, “I am trying to remember if I have ever heard you mention Thomas without sarcasm dripping from his name like icicles.”

She pretended to think about it, then shook her head. “No, probably not. I do find it hard to give the noble Thomas the benefit of the doubt-damnation, I did it again, didn’t I? You are right, of course. Eleanor had a full account of the meeting as fast as a courier’s horse could travel from Montmartre to Poitiers. But you were there, Roger. I truly would like to hear your view of the events.”

“Fair enough. It was very disheartening, Maud. The differences between the two men are so deep that I despair of ever seeing them bridged. But the papal legates were bound and determined to achieve at least the semblance of reconciliation. From what I’ve heard, the Pope is sorely vexed with Thomas and thinks that he is woefully shortsighted, unable to see the forest for all the trees. There is some truth in that, but they do not understand how much he cares about the liberty of Mother Church.”

Maud rolled her eyes at that, thinking of the letter Eleanor had shown her, having somehow obtained a copy of the archbishop’s correspondence to the Pope. Becket had complained of suffering “tribulation more severe than any which has ever been experienced since tribulation first began” and assured the pontiff that there was never “grief like unto my grief.” But for once, she held her tongue, waiting for Roger to continue.

“Harry finally agreed to make restitution to Thomas ‘as his ministers should advise him,’ and the French king convinced Thomas that this was acceptable. Louis thought it was unseemly that a priest should bicker over money,” Roger said, with a faint smile. “Alas, such a high-minded principle is one only kings can afford.”

Maud nodded sympathetically, knowing that Roger had incurred huge debts in the months away from his English diocese; she would have to find a tactful way to offer a loan to tide him over. “It sounds as if they did not so much resolve their differences as agree to ignore them.”

“Just so,” Roger said and sighed. “Thomas agreed to drop the ‘saving the Honor of God’ proviso and Harry in turn agreed to forgo that counterclause he sprang upon the papal legates this summer.”

Maud grinned. “I heard about that. ‘Saving the dignity of my realm,’ was it not? I assume he figured that one ambiguous phrase deserves another. At least Harry has not entirely lost his sense of humor about all this!”

“That is more than the rest of us can say,” Roger confessed. “It pains me greatly, Maud, to see two men I cherish so hostile to each other, all the more so because they were once such fast friends.”

And you’re the one caught between them, she thought sadly, grist for their mills. “So they agreed to jettison those troublesome stipulations and Harry promised to restore the archbishopric estates and no one dared breathe the dreaded words ‘Constitutions of Clarendon.’ After coming so far, how could they then stumble over a ritual like the Kiss of Peace? Why throw away all that progress over something ceremonial?”

Roger reached for his cup, grimacing at the taste of warm ale; he had forsaken wine for Advent. “I know. It was like watching a race where the horses pulled up just before the finish. They were so close to agreement, so close… But then Thomas demanded that Harry give him the Kiss of Peace and Harry refused. He said-correctly-that the Kiss of Peace was to be given only after a true bargain had been struck, and there were still serious matters unresolved between them. If he’d stopped at that, well and good. But he then went on to claim that he’d sworn a holy vow that he’d never give Becket the Kiss of Peace. Since Harry has never been one for holding oaths sacred and inviolable, that explanation was met with considerable skepticism. The legates and the Archbishop of Rouen offered to absolve him of his vow, but he declined, insisting it would look forced and false under the circumstances. He offered, though, to have his eldest son give the Kiss in his stead. Thomas balked at that, and the good ship Appeasement ran up on the rocks yet again.”

“God save us from stubborn men,” Maud said with a sigh. “So what happens now? Surely the Pope will continue trying to mediate between them?”

“Of course he will. However irksome he finds Thomas these days, he is still the Archbishop of Canterbury, England’s greatest prelate and a prince of the Church. Nor can the Pope afford to alienate the King of England, especially since he has hopes now that Harry will take part in the coming Crusade.”

“Ah, yes, our cousin the crusader,” Maud said, very dryly. “I was with Eleanor when she heard about Harry’s sudden fervor to see Jerusalem. She laughed so hard that she spilled a cup of good wine.”

Roger did not disagree with Eleanor’s cynical assessment of her husband’s motives. “For all that his greatest passion is for the hunt, Harry would have made a fine fisherman, too, for he can throw out bait with the best of them. And you may be sure that the Holy Father knows that full well. But as long as there is a chance that Harry truly intends to take the Cross, it must be pursued.”

“Spiders must marvel at the webs that kings weave… or queens,” Maud added, thinking of Eleanor. “Is it true that you and Harry had a falling-out this summer? Eleanor said he was wroth enough to order your banishment.”

“Eleanor doubtless knows of it as soon as a weed sprouts anywhere in Harry’s domains,” Roger said, smiling-although that was not entirely meant as a compliment. “I was prideful enough to think that I could make Harry see the folly of this feud. But Thomas had just excommunicated several of Harry’s councilors and I knew I’d encounter them at court. So I wrote to Thomas, explaining my mission and requesting that he give me dispensation to associate with these lost souls. Regrettably, Thomas refused.”

“How gracious of him!” Maud exclaimed sharply, and then, “I am sorry, but I could not help myself. If you please, continue.”

“I caught up with Harry in June, ere he left for Gascony to chase down more of Eleanor’s Poitevin rebels. He seemed pleased to see me; I may be one of the very few whose friendship with Thomas he is willing to overlook. He was in good spirits for a man who’d spent the spring putting out fires in Aquitaine whilst attempting to get the Pope to absolve Gilbert Foliot and the others from their sentences of excommunication. I tried to talk to him about Thomas a few times, but he was always quick to change the subject; you know how elusive Harry can be.

“Still, all was going well until we attended Mass together on the third day of my visit. When Geoffrey Ridel entered the chapel, I had no choice but to depart at once. Harry followed me, baffled by my sudden departure. I explained that I could not be in the company of an excommunicate, but that was not what he wanted to hear. One hasty word led to another and ere we knew it, Harry was ordering me from his domains. I could probably have talked him out of it, but my own temper was afire by then and I made some intemperate remark to the effect that my foot was already in the stirrup, which did not help at all.”

Maud could not keep from laughing. “I’d think not. A pity that neither one of us inherited our father’s calm, placid temperament instead of taking after our hotheaded mother! So what happened then?”

“I rode off in high dudgeon,” Roger admitted, laughing, too. “To his credit, Harry cooled off first and sent a messenger after me, telling me to return. I refused, of course. But by the time his third summons reached me, I was done with my sulking and so I came back and we made our peace. I had no luck in convincing Harry to end his estrangement with Thomas, but for the rest of my stay, Harry saw to it that neither Geoffrey Ridel nor any of the other excommunicates came into my presence.”

“What will you do if Becket goes ahead with his threat and excommunicates Harry, too? No, never mind; I do not want to know. I think we’ve dealt with enough sorrows and trouble for one night. Let’s talk instead of more cheerful matters.”

And so they did, discussing Roger’s studies in canon law and theology at the nearby city of Tours, reminiscing about the marriage earlier that year of Maud’s eldest son, Hugh, to the daughter of Simon de Montfort, Count of Evreux, and sharing what little news they had about their uncle Ranulf, still secluded deep in Wales. Roger told Maud, with an enthusiasm she did not share, all about Henry’s ambitious plans to build a thirty-mile stretch of embankments to keep the River Loire from flooding. And she did her best to coax him into returning with her to Poitiers, lavishly praising the anticipated splendors of Eleanor’s Christmas revelries.

Roger demurred, joking that there were too many temptations to be found at the royal court. After a moment, though, he frowned slightly. “I was told at Montmartre that Harry planned to celebrate Christmas with his son Geoffrey at Nantes, as a gesture of goodwill toward the Bretons. Has he changed his plans, then?”

“No, he will be holding his Christmas court in Brittany this year.”

“I see… But Eleanor will be at Poitiers?”

Maud nodded slowly and their eyes met in a brief moment of unspoken understanding. A pall seemed to have settled over the room, giving them both an unwelcome glimpse of the road ahead, strewn with pitfalls and snares. Maud reached for her wine, no longer having the heart to tease her brother about his Advent abstinence. “Roger… do you think this will end well?” she asked at last, realizing that her words could apply equally to the troubles with Thomas Becket or the unacknowledged rift widening between Harry and Eleanor.

Roger did not reply at once, crumpling his napkin as he looked into the hearth’s flames. “No,” he said softly. “No, I do not.”