Henry was now with Maude on the settle, their voices low, faces intent. When Will offered his mother a wine cup, she thanked him absently, setting it down untasted, and Ranulf felt a twinge of pity for the youth. Maude’s rapport with her firstborn was so complete that it inevitably and unintentionally shut others out, even Will. Ranulf had not seen his sister in seven years. His elder by sixteen years, she was fifty-six now, too thin for his liking and too pale. She was dry-eyed, which didn’t surprise him; Maude would let only the Almighty see her tears. But her pain was apparent in the rigid stiffness of her posture, in the lines grooved around her mouth, even in the unnatural stillness of the fingers loosely linked in her lap.
Rising, Ranulf crossed the chamber and joined Becket at the window. “How did your talks go with the French king?”
“Quite well.”
Ranulf glanced curiously at the other man. He knew his nephew had a specific purpose in seeking a meeting with Louis, and he would have liked to know what it was. But there was no point in asking, for Becket shared none of Henry’s secrets.
Feeling Ranulf’s gaze upon him, Becket smiled quizzically. He was in his thirty-eighth year, a man of intriguing contrasts, handsome but apparently chaste, educated but no scholar, an articulate and eloquent speaker who’d had to overcome a slight stammer, an archdeacon who’d not taken priestly vows, worldly and prideful and pious, closer to the king than any man alive, and yet with few other friends or intimates. People were invariably impressed by his competence, but he remained a stranger in their midst and they sensed that, however imperfectly.
“Is there some reason why you are staring at me, Ranulf?” Becket asked good-naturedly. “I get the uneasy sense that you are trying to see into the depths of my soul!”
“Actually,” Ranulf confessed, “I was speculating about your mission to the French court. It could not have been easy, acting as Harry’s emissary to his wife’s former husband. Even your powers of persuasion must have been sorely tried under those circumstances.”
Becket smiled, not denying that he was a gifted mediator or that this had been a particularly challenging task. “Harry does seem to enjoy sending me into the lion’s den.”
“And then wagering upon whether you’ll come out alive,” Ranulf joked. “But he often says that naming you as chancellor was one of the best decisions of his life, although he’s not likely ever to say it in your hearing.”
“I am gladdened that I’ve done well as chancellor. But I expected no less.” Becket flashed a quick smile to dispel any hint of arrogance. “I learned at an early age that an undertaking must be done wholeheartedly or not at all.”
“That may explain why you and Harry see eye to eye so often. God knows, he is half-hearted in nothing that he does!”
They turned then to welcome Will, who’d finally stopped hovering on the fringes of his mother and brother’s conversation. When Ranulf asked how he was faring, he shrugged. “I ought to be more grieved,” he said, sounding very young, “for we were brothers, after all. But I feel more pity than sorrow. I’m sorry Geoff was cheated of so much. But in truth, he could be such a swine.”
Will drew a deep breath then, as if unburdened by his honesty. Almost at once, though, his eyes flicked across the chamber, reassuring himself that his mother had not heard. When he spoke again, he sounded bemused. “Do you know what Harry and Mama are talking about, Uncle Ranulf? She is urging him to lay claim to the county of Nantes as Geoff’s heir.”
Ranulf and Becket were both amused by Will’s naivete. It would never have occurred to them that Henry would do otherwise than claim Nantes, for if he did not, the Duke of Brittany would swallow the county whole. When Will wandered away to the settle, Becket said softly:
“It was fortunate for all concerned that Harry was the eldest of the Lady Maude’s sons.”
Ranulf nodded slowly. Geoff would have been a disaster as king, and-in a different way-so would Will, for he was far too good-hearted and easygoing to command other men. “A king needs steel in his soul,” he agreed, thinking sadly of Stephen.
“Harry has that, in plenitude. But that raises an interesting point. Which comes first, the kingship or the steel?”
“Ah… so you are asking, Thomas, if Harry is ruthless because he is king? Or because he is ruthless, did he become king? I suspect we’d best leave that to the same philosophers who debate how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.” Ranulf’s smile vanished, though, as he looked across the chamber at his sister. Maude in earnest conversation with Henry, exhorting him to claim Nantes straightaway, doing what she’d always done, submerging her grief in dreams of glory for her firstborn, her best beloved son.
CHAPTER SIX
August 1158
Gisors, France
The Great Hall of Gisors Castle was overflowing with men, music, and avid curiosity. Most eyes kept straying toward the dais, where the Kings of France and England presided over an elaborate meal, for the true entertainment of the evening was not the minstrels; it was the sight of these two men sitting side by side in such incongruous harmony.
They were as unlike in appearance as they were in temperament. Louis was tall and slim, with delicate features and fair hair just beginning to thin around the temples. Pledged to God in his cradle, he had been raised by the monks of St-Denis, snatched from the cloistered world he’d come to love by the unexpected death of his elder brother. He was unfailingly courteous and genuinely kindhearted, with an innate dignity that had nothing to do with kingship, so pious that he was rumored to wear a hair shirt under his royal robes. But although he’d been King of France for more than twenty years, he still seemed to be playing a role not of his choosing.
Watching the two kings from his vantage point farther down the table, Ranulf could not help thinking that Louis was but a candle to Harry’s bonfire. As far as he could determine, they had nothing in common but the woman they’d both wed. It made their apparent amity now all the more amazing. Ranulf had long ago learned not to underestimate his nephew. But even he had not been prepared for such dazzling legerdemain as this. How, he marveled, had Harry done it? How had he been able to befriend a man with so many reasons to resent him?
“I find myself thinking of Scriptures.” Thomas Becket leaned over so that his voice reached Ranulf’s ear alone. “I daresay you know the verse I mean. ‘The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid.’ ”
A burst of royal laughter echoed down the table. Ranulf was not close enough to hear what Louis and Henry were saying, but he was struck by the anxious frown of Hugh de Champfleury, the French king’s chancellor. It was obvious that de Champfleury was viewing this rapprochement in the same stark biblical terms as Becket; obvious, too, whom he’d cast as the wolf.
Reaching for his wine cup, Ranulf clinked it against Becket’s. Still wondering what quarry his nephew was pursuing at the French court, he said, “Let’s drink to a successful hunt.”
It was late when the festivities ended and Henry and Louis bade each other a cordial good night. As the French left, Henry caught Ranulf’s eye. They’d always communicated well without words, and Ranulf nodded. Finding his way abovestairs to Henry’s bedchamber, he met Thomas Becket at the door and they entered together.
Henry had stripped off his tunic, but was still in his shirtsleeves. No servants were in attendance, for he wanted no other ears pricking up at his news. At the sight of his uncle and his chancellor, Henry grinned. “Well,” he said, “Louis has agreed to give me a free hand in Brittany.”