Time and Chance

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

January 1171

Argentan, Normandy

The Archbishop of Rouen had been summoned to the king’s solar for further discussions about the looming confrontation with the Archbishop of Canterbury, but he was still lingering in the great hall, not at all eager to jump back into that particular fire. Henry’s combustible temper had even more fuel to feed upon; yesterday he’d learned of Becket’s Christmas Day excommunications. The archbishop had long harbored a secret apprehension that this clash between two such stubborn, strong-willed men could not possibly end well, although he’d struggled to ignore his doubts and do whatever he could to make their peace a permanent one. But the peace had not even lasted through Christmastide, and he was grimly certain that far worse was to come.

Getting reluctantly to his feet, he was adjusting his surplice when his attention was drawn by a new arrival to the hall. Waiting for the Bishop of Lisieux to join him, he said wryly, “You’re just in time, Arnulf, to enter the Valley of Death with me.”

Getting no response, he subjected Arnulf to a closer scrutiny and felt a sudden chill, for the bishop was the color of curdled milk. What news could have so unnerved a man as worldly and urbane as Arnulf of Lisieux?

They huddled in the stairway by the solar door, Arnulf and Rotrou of Rouen and a travel-stained, disheveled young courier too fatigued for fear. Arnulf at last reached for the latch, mouthing the cry of the crusaders, “Deus vult,” in an attempt at sardonic bravado that rang hollow even to his own ears.

The solar was crowded, well lit by flaring torches. Henry was standing in the center of the chamber, listening to several men at once. When the door opened and the two prelates entered, he greeted them with a scowl and sarcasm. “How kind of you to belatedly honor us with your presence, my lords.”

Arnulf, as skilled as any diplomat in the arts of discretion and circumspection, could not believe that he had volunteered for such a thankless task as this. Balking at the very edge of the cliff, he decided to throw the hapless messenger into the void and beckoned the young man forward. “My liege, this is Lucas, whose lord is Hugh de Gundeville. He has come from Canterbury with grievous news for you.”

Lucas stumbled and sank to his knees before Henry. “My lord king, the Archbishop of Canterbury is dead.”

“What?” Henry stared at the man as if the words had no meaning. The blank look on his face was one Arnulf had seen before, a moment of desperate denial before the Apocalypse.

“The young king sent my lord Hugh to Canterbury. We got there on Wednesday morn, after the murder was done.”

Lucas paused, waiting politely for his lord’s response. When there was none, he made the sign of the cross, saying softly, “The archbishop was slain Tuesday eve at Vespers.” Remembering, then, the letter he’d almost forgotten in his exhaustion, he held it out.

Henry took the letter, but he made no attempt to read it. His fingers tightened around the parchment roll, as if of their own volition. He looked at the horror-struck faces of the men encircling him, saying nothing. And before any of them could speak, he’d turned away and was gone, the door closing quietly behind him.

When Henry ’s son, the young king, was told of the archbishop’s murder, he exclaimed aloud, “Alas! But God, I give Thee thanks that this was done without my knowledge and that none of my people were involved.”

They were waiting in a private chamber in Eleanor’s palace at Poitiers. They had gathered to consult with their duchess about the latest crisis threatening to engulf the Angevin empire. They’d just begun, though, when Eleanor was called away. She’d not been gone long, but the delay was eroding their patience. They were experienced enough to know that she’d not have interrupted the council for a routine message.

When she finally returned, it was to a sudden silence. Her face was expressionless, and to these men who knew her so well, the appearance of her inscrutable court mask was as sure a sign of a coming storm as northeast winds and a haloed moon. She paused for a long moment in the doorway and then strode into the chamber, head high and eyes guarded and opaque. The men were watching her, so only Raoul noticed as her son slipped inconspicuously in behind her and took up position in the shadows. He was not about to give the boy away though, believing that if Richard was old enough to sneak in, he was old enough to hear.

“I’ve just received word from Argentan,” Eleanor said without preamble. “Thomas Becket was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral on the morrow after Holy Innocents’ Day.”

Even the most irreverent of her lords could not suppress a shiver, for there were few crimes more sacrilegious than the killing of an archbishop in his own church. Once the initial shock passed, not all were displeased by the news. No one had yet asked the fateful question, but in a sense, it was not even necessary. Whether Becket had died at the English king’s connivance or not, the blame would still be laid at Henry’s throne.

“The killers were four English knights, some of whom may be known to you,” Eleanor said dispassionately, “Hugh de Morville, William de Tracy, Reginald Fitz Urse, and Richard le Bret. The de Brocs were involved, too, although they apparently took no role in the actual slaying. They claimed that they were doing the king’s bidding. That is not true.”

They already knew that was so, for she’d reported that her husband’s decision at Bures had been to demand that Becket absolve the English bishops or face arrest. A few speculated whether an assassination order might have been given without her knowledge, but none were foolhardy enough to suggest that. It was left to her trusted confidant and seneschal, Saldebreuil de Sanzay, to give voice to the other truth, the obvious truth.

“I do not doubt that, Madame,” he said. “But it may not matter. Lord Henry’s enemies will care only that a weapon of incomparable sharpness has been delivered into their hands.”

“I know,” she acknowledged, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed her frustration and dismay to show. “What monumental, unforgivable folly…”

It was then that Richard emerged from hiding. Eleanor stiffened at the sight of her son, but she did not send him away; it was too late for that. Richard had experienced a growth spurt that autumn and it was a minor surprise to realize that his eyes were level with her own, that it was like looking into her husband’s eyes, clear and sea-grey and impenetrable.

“Will men blame my father for this killing?”

Eleanor was not going to lie to him, not to Richard. “Yes,” she said, “I fear that they will,” and he nodded, apparently satisfied by her candor. What he thought about Becket’s murder, she did not know, would not know unless he chose to tell her.

Raoul dared then to pose the question that many of them were wondering. It had not escaped him that she’d been ambiguous about the source of her information. He suspected that if she’d heard of the murder from Henry himself, she would have said so, which meant that the rumors of marital strife were becoming more and more credible. Nothing could please him more, but he took care to keep his voice perfectly neutral as he asked, “My lady… will you go to the king at Argentan?”

Eleanor was not fooled by the detachment of his query; she well knew the depths of enmity between her husband and uncle. She regarded Raoul pensively, trying to decide if she should answer honestly, answer at all. “Yes,” she said, very evenly, “… if he sends for me.”

“My lamb, you must cease your weeping. You’ll sicken upon your tears if you do not.”

Rosamund paid no heed to Meliora’s commiseration, continuing to sob into a sodden pillow. Meliora sat down heavily beside her, reaching out a hand to stroke the tousled fair hair. She had tried to keep the news of the archbishop’s murder from Rosamund, but the story was spreading faster than wildfire, on everyone’s lips, the topic of all conversation in the streets of Falaise. She did not doubt that this heinous crime would rock Christendom to its very foundations.

“Men are saying he did this, that he gave the command…” Rosamund sobbed again, then hiccuped. Her beautiful blue eyes were swollen to slits, puffy and sore. She knew Meliora was right, that she was making herself sick. But she could not control her tears, her grief, or her fear. “He would never have done that, Meliora, never!”

“I know, lamb, I know,” Meliora said soothingly, while hoping that Rosamund’s faith in her royal lover would not be shaken, or worse, betrayed.

“If only he would send for me, Meliora…” Rosamund shifted so that her head was in the other woman’s lap, taking faint comfort in these maternal attentions, an unknown luxury in the Clifford family. “If only I could go to him! He is heartsick about the archbishop’s death, I know he is. And I can do nothing to help, nothing…”

From a letter of Louis, King of the French, to Pope Alexander: “Let the sword of St Peter be unsheathed to avenge the martyr of Canterbury…”

From a letter of William, Archbishop of Sens, to Pope Alexander: “Avenge, O Lord, the blood of thy servant and martyr, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who has been slain, nay, crucified, for the liberties of the Church…”

From a letter of Theobald, Count of Blois, to Pope Alexander: “Those dogs of the court… showed themselves true servants of the king, and guiltily shed innocent blood… May then, Holy Father, the Almighty aid and counsel you… May He both instill into you a wish for vengeance and the power of obtaining it, so that the Church, put to confusion by the magnitude of this unheard-of crime, may have reason to rejoice…”

From another letter of William, Archbishop of Sens, to Pope Alexander: “And indeed, I believe that the outcry of the world must have filled the ears of Your Holinesss, how that this, not King of the English, but enemy rather of the English and of the whole body of Christ, has lately committed wickedness against the holy one… For this crime is one that by far deserves the first place among all the crimes of the wicked that are read or related; as all the wickedness of Nero, the perfidiousness of Julian, and even the sacrilegious treachery of Judas does it exceed…”

The Bishop of Worcester was taken at once to the king’s solar, where he was greeted by a trinity of churchmen: Rotrou of Rouen, Arnulf of Lisieux, and Giles of Evreux. His mantle was wet with melting snow and sleet, for Argentan was in the grip of an icy January storm. They hovered around him, fatherly and concerned, offering to find dry, warm garments, to provide food, mulled wine. Roger brushed off their suggestions with terse courtesy; he did not want their solicitude.

“I do not know why I am here,” he said, and Rotrou began to describe the king’s anguish. Arnulf cut him off, understanding what Roger was really saying.

“It is possible,” he said, “to mourn for the archbishop without forsaking your cousin the king.”

“Is it?” Roger asked bleakly and Arnulf shrugged.

“You are here, are you not?”

“Yes,” Roger admitted, “I am…” Pulling off his mantle, he flung it across a chair. “Tell me why you think I can help.”

“If you cannot,” Arnulf said bluntly, “I fear for the life of the king.” Roger’s left eyebrow shot up in a skeptical arch that was uncannily like Henry’s. “Is his grief as great as that? Or his guilt?”

Arnulf shrugged again. “I suspect they are horns on the same goat. I can tell you, though, that his sorrow is very real. He has been secluded in his bedchamber for more than three days now, refusing to admit anyone, refusing to eat, to accept any comfort at all.”

“The queen is not here?”

Rotrou shook his head. “Would that she were, but she and the king parted after Christmas, he riding north and she returning to Poitou.”

They were watching him hopefully, expectantly. Roger stalked to the hearth, held his hands out toward its warmth. “Ask him,” he said, “if he’ll see me.”

The chamber was dark, shutters latched, candles and lamps quenched. It was cold, too, for the hearth fire had gone out, only a few feeble embers still aglow. Roger was blind, unable to see anything but blackness. “Harry?” There was no reply and he waited until his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, until he could discern a motionless figure in a window seat. He hesitated and then carefully crossed the room and sat down beside Henry.

“Jesu!” Cold air was seeping through the shutters, the window seat under siege by icy drafts. “Are you not half-frozen by now?”

“No.”

Roger was encouraged that he’d gotten an answer, any answer. Sure that he could outwait his cousin, he said nothing, let the silence settle around them. He could hear Henry’s breathing, shallow and uneven, could hear the other man shifting position on the seat. When Henry finally spoke, his voice was as constricted as his breath.

“As God is my witness,” he said, “those men did not murder him at my bidding.”

“I know,” Roger said, thankful that he need not lie about that.

There was another prolonged silence. “Do you think that Thomas knew that?”

“Yes, he did,” Roger said, with such certainty that Henry came abruptly to his feet.

“If I wanted to be fed pap, there are more than enough men eager to serve it up to me. That question was not easy to ask. I agreed to see you because I thought you’d be the one man who’d give me an honest answer!”

Roger rose, too, unable to endure the window seat chill any longer. “You want more from me than honesty, Harry. You want absolution.”

Henry started to make an angry denial, stopped himself. “What if I do?”

“I cannot give it to you,” Roger said and again it was quiet.

“I know,” Henry said at last, so softly that Roger barely heard him.

“But I can give you this much. I can tell you for certes that Thomas knew his killers were not there at your behest. He said so, you see. When they first confronted him in his bedchamber, he told them that he did not believe they came from the king.” Thrusting into the pouch at his belt, he drew out a letter. “This was written by William Fitz Stephen within hours of the murder. Read it for yourself if you doubt me.”

Henry reached out, but his fingers just brushed the parchment. Roger turned away, dropping the letter onto a nearby table, and strode toward the hearth. Picking up fire tongs, he began to prod the embers back to life. “I am going to light a candle now,” he said and when Henry did not protest, he did so, cupping the flame once it had kindled and holding it aloft.

Henry flinched away from the light at first, but then he raised his head and met Roger’s gaze full on. “Do I look like a man with blood on my hands?”

“You look,” Roger said, “like a man who has not slept or eaten for days.” Setting the candle down, he started toward the door. “If I order milk of almonds, will you drink it?” Taking Henry’s silence as assent, he opened the door just wide enough to issue instructions. Neither man spoke until a timid knock announced a servant’s arrival. Thwarting the curiosity of those hovering out in the stairwell, Roger did not admit the man, taking the tray himself and closing the door upon the waiting world.

Henry accepted the cup with indifference, but with Roger’s eyes upon him, he took a swallow, then another. His gaze shifted several times from his cousin’s face to Fitz Stephen’s letter. He was not ready to read it, though, and began to pace, retreating back into the shadows beyond the candle’s solitary glimmer.

“It does not matter that I never wanted this. I will be blamed for it.” It was not posed as a question, but Roger heard the echoes of one nonetheless. “Yes,” he said, “you will.”

Henry halted his pacing. “Do you blame me?”

“Yes,” Roger said implacably and Henry drew a sharp breath.

“You said you believed me! You said you knew I did not order his death!”

“I do believe that. But if you are not guilty, neither are you innocent. Your hot, heedless words set the killing in motion.”

“I did not want him murdered!”

“But he was murdered, and by men who killed in your name.” Henry shook his head vehemently. “It was not my doing, Roger! I spoke out in anger, no more than that. You know my temper, quick to kindle and quick to cool. I admit that my words were ill chosen, but this was not the first time that I’d flared up over one of Becket’s affronts. I cursed him out soundly and publicly at Chinon after learning that he’d excommunicated my justiciar, and I daresay my language was intemperate, even threatening. But no one acted upon my words!”

“Well,” Roger said, “this time they did,” and that, Henry could not deny.