The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (27 page)

“And the poor girl was left behind?” I cried.

“She was heartbroken. They thought she would die. Then suddenly she began to recover, because she had decided what she would do. She was going to England to find Gilbert. She planned with care, sewing priceless jewels into her garments, and when she was ready she stole out of the Emir’s palace and set out. There were many pilgrims on the road and she joined a party of them. She found some who could speak her language and told them what she planned to do. She knew two words in English: London and Gilbert. It seemed that God was watching over her, for in time she arrived in England.”

“Now comes the end of the story,” said Henry. “I like it.”

“Yes,” said Becket. “She went through the streets of London calling Gilbert. That was all. She became a familiar sight. People talked of her—the strange woman with the Eastern look who knew only two words—Gilbert and London. She called for him, sometimes piteously, sometimes hopefully. It was my father’s servant who saw her, for he had been in captivity with my father. He took her to him. The quest was over.”

“There,” said Henry, “is that not a tale of true romance?”

“It is indeed. I never heard the like.”

“It was God—making sure that we had a Thomas Becket.” Henry slapped the man on the back.

I certainly was intrigued by the story but most of all perhaps by the quick friendship Henry appeared to have formed with this man.

Later I spoke of him.

“It is not surprising that this Becket is an unusual man,” I said, “with such a father and an Eastern mother.”

“A woman of great purpose.”

“And a noble gentleman.”

“Yes, that is what produced Becket.”

“I wonder what his childhood was like in such circumstances.”

“He has told me parts. He was brought up in a very religious way. His mother was a convert to Christianity and, remember, they are often the most intense. Both his parents wanted him to go into the Church. A nobleman who had visited the house was interested in their story of the strange marriage and naturally his attention turned to Thomas. He took him to his home in Pevensey Castle and brought him up as a nobleman’s son.”

“Ah yes, there is certainly a touch of the nobleman about him. His tastes would appear to be expensive.”

“I tell him he is too fastidious for a commoner,” said Henry.

“He could scarcely accuse you of being too fastidious.”

“Becket did not want to go into the Church. He fancied business. He did well—which was to be expected. Then disaster struck. His mother died and his father’s house was burned to the ground—and soon after that Gilbert died. Becket was melancholy. His parents had meant a great deal to him. Theobald, who had become Archbishop of Canterbury and remembered playing with Gilbert as a boy, persuaded Thomas to join his household. Thomas was twenty-five then. Of course, there he was noticed immediately.”

“Yes, he is a man who would be. He is so tall         .         .         .         and those dark eyes of his, which he must have inherited from his mother, are very handsome. His very thinness makes him look taller and he seems to stand about four inches above other men.”

“He did not stay in the Archbishop’s house. There were those who were jealous of him and made his life difficult, and although Theobald was aware of Thomas’s brilliance, he let him go for the sake of the peace of the household. He sent him to his brother Walter, who was the Archdeacon of Canterbury. After Walter’s death, Becket took that post.”

“He hardly seems like a man of the Church.”

“No, he is far too amusing. I think he considered for a time which way he should go.”

“He seems to have taken your fancy.”

“I verily believe he is the most interesting man I have met since coming to these shores.”

I suppose I should not have been surprised when shortly afterward Henry told me that he had made Becket his Chancellor.

I was now heavily pregnant. Henry had left London and was traveling through the country. I missed Matilda and wished she were with me. But I had Petronilla, now a sober matron, mother and widow, quite a different person from the frivolous girl whose hasty love affair had created such consternation.

Eagerly I awaited the birth. From the palace I could look across the river to the Tower of London, that great sentinel which guarded the eastern side, and from there to the west, dominated by the spire of the cathedral, and beyond to Ludgate. I could see the strand along the river, with the wharves and the houses of the nobility with their fine gardens and their boats staked to the privy stairs which ran down to the river. I knew the strand led to Westminster Palace where we should have taken up residence, of course, if it had been fit for habitation. This would have to be remedied. There would be so much for me to do. But first I must give birth to my child.

It was not a difficult birth, and there was great rejoicing throughout the palace when it was over and I had another boy.

I said: “This one shall be called Henry after his father.”

After the birth of the child, I took my place beside Henry in his journeyings around the country. I was enthralled by my new realm and wanted to learn as much about it as possible. The people were very different from the natives of Aquitaine, but I liked them nonetheless. They marveled at me and I felt that they were by no means hostile. They had taken to Henry; his ways suited them. They liked his careless way of dressing, his rough and ready style. I suppose he made them feel he was one of them. On the other hand they did appreciate my elegance and they were obviously delighted and rather overawed by my appearance. They were very interested in my clothes and seemed to like their Queen to look attractive.

So that was a happy time.

One could not expect it to continue. We were both back in Bermondsey for a brief respite when we were disturbed by a visitor, Henry’s brother Geoffrey.

We made much of him, but I could see he was envious and bent on making trouble. That irritated me. Did he think he would have had the wit and courage to win this crown? People like Geoffrey wanted everything to fall into their hands with no effort from themselves.

I guessed that he had come to see what he could get, and he soon made it clear that I was right about that.

“Now you have England,” he said, “Anjou should be mine.”

“I think not,” retorted Henry.

“It was what our father intended.”

“You could not hold on to Anjou.”

“Why should I not?”

“Because you lack the experience to do so,” Henry told him. “I cannot throw away my father’s inheritance. He left you three castles.”

“And you took them from me.”

“I might restore them.”

Geoffrey was furious. He left us in a huff.

Henry snapped his fingers. “Young fool,” he said. “How long does he think he would hold Anjou?”

“He has a very high opinion of himself,” I replied. “What a lucky escape I had. The young fool had the temerity to make a bid for me. Of course, it was doomed to failure—as all Geoffrey’s projects would be.”

Henry dismissed his brother from his mind but I did not think the matter would end there.

Then Matilda announced her intention of coming to England. Henry was delighted and great preparations were made to receive her.

“She will want to see you in your crown,” I said. “She has dreamed of that for so long.”

“And worked for it,” said Henry soberly.

She was indefatigable in his service. No sooner had she come than I realized she had a purpose in doing so.

“I think it is necessary for you to come over,” she told Henry. “Geoffrey is intent on trouble.”

“He has been here, you know,” said Henry.

“I do know it. He came back with grievances. You are brothers, he says. Why should you have everything?”

“It was as my father left it,” said Henry. “But I have been thinking I should do something for Geoffrey.”

“Not Normandy,” said Matilda.

“No. And not Anjou either. I don’t intend to throw away my dominions.”

“He is preparing an army,” went on Matilda. “How I hate this warfare in families.”

“To give him Anjou would be tantamount to throwing it away. How long do you think he would hold it?”

“Not long,” said Matilda.

“There is Ireland.”

“What of Ireland?”

“I had thought of conquering it and giving that to him.”

Matilda was very serious. “You have Anjou, Normandy and England. My dear son, your resources are going to be stretched as far as they can go with those territories. Do not add to that, for the love of God. You could lose them all by taking one more bite. Besides, the Irish are a troublesome race. They would need a constant army to subdue them. And how do you think either of your brothers would like that?”

“I suppose they should have something.”

“Geoffrey has shown that he cannot even hold his own castles. You must come back to Normandy with me. Eleanor can look after matters here. She has good men around her, has she not?”

“She has. There is Becket, my Chancellor, in whom I have great trust, and there are Robert of Leicester and Richard of Luci. Yes, that is what we must do. I will come back with you and settle this brother of mine once and for all. And Eleanor will make sure that all is well here. My two generals         .         .         .         I am lucky to have you both.”

“You can put your trust in us—can he not?” said Matilda to me.

I agreed that he could.

I was sad that he was going away so soon, but I was reconciled that this would be our way of life. And at least he did me the honor of respecting me to such an extent that he could leave me in charge.

He and Matilda departed. The matter was urgent and once he had decided on a course of action, Henry could never delay.

I was very busy. I had conferences with the Earl of Leicester and Richard of Luci. I liked them both and we understood each other well.

Then one night the nurses came to me in great distress. Little William was fighting hard for his breath, and they feared that he was very ill indeed.

We had had many alarms with William and I was constantly anxious about him. I called in the doctors but, alas, there was nothing they could do. My little William, the boy of whom I had been so proud, passed away while Henry was in Anjou fighting his brother.

I was very sad. I had loved the girls I had had from Louis, but Henry’s boys were especially dear to me.

It was while I was mourning for William that I found I was once more pregnant.

Henry returned from Anjou. He was triumphant. Naturally Geoffrey’s pathetic little revolt had been put down. He did have a certain conscience though, for it was true that his father had said that, when Henry came to the throne of England, Anjou should go to Geoffrey.

Henry explained it to me. “To give it to him would be to throw it away. If my father had really known what he was like, he would never have agreed to that.”

“But he had done so.”

Henry went on: “I have told him he cannot have Anjou         .         .         .         or Normandy. I must make sure that they are safe. I have compromised with him and I think he is satisfied. An income for life         .         .         .         a handsome income         .         .         .         on condition he leaves Anjou to me.”

“That should suffice,” I said.

“My mother will look after Normandy, and if there is any trouble and I have to leave England, you will look after this country for me.”

“We are a close triumvirate,” I replied.

“That is so, my love. You and my mother are my two most trusted generals, as I have told you.”

He was delighted that I was once more with child.

His friendship with Thomas Becket was growing in a manner which surprised not only me. The two were becoming inseparable. They hunted together, hawked together, rode, walked and talked. Like others I could not understand this attraction. They were so unlike each other. Becket was meticulous in his dress; he always wore the finest clothes. He had a love of luxurious living which ill accorded with his calling but which I have often found a characteristic of those who come to gracious living rather than were born to it. True, at Pevensey Castle, where he had spent many years with Sir Richer de l’Aigle, he had developed a fondness for easy living which stayed with him. There was a natural elegance about him; I could understand Henry’s regard for him; but this intense friendship was strange indeed.

Becket was a man of the world, churchman though he might be. That he was unusually clever, I had no doubt. He gave the impression of one who had no regard for ambition. He made no concessions to royalty whatsoever; he treated the King as his equal and had no hesitation in disagreeing with him if he thought fit. It might have been that which Henry found so refreshing. There was no doubt that the man had an unusual charisma.

Henry set him to organize the refurbishment of the palace in the Tower of London, a task which Becket performed with great competence—and extravagance.

Henry was amused and chided Becket about the cost, asking him how he, as a churchman, could spend so much on luxuries for the King when the money might have been spent in helping the poor.

“And what do you think his answer was?” said Henry to me. “‘Better to have a well-housed King than leave him so uncomfortable that his temper frays from time to time.’”

Henry slapped his thigh, indicating how the remark had amused him. Becket was, of course, referring to the King’s rages.

“I pointed out to him that my temper frayed no matter where I was housed, and when I was provoked my rages overcame me.

“‘You admit to weakness,’ he said. ‘That is one step along on the road on which God will guide you.’ What do you think of that?”

“That this man takes great liberties with the King.”

“He cares not for kingship. I am a man. He is a man. That is how he sees it. Becket says what is in his mind. That is why conversation with him is so interesting. He is such an amusing fellow in a quiet and witty way.”

“He should take care that you do not fly into one of your rages with him.”