On All Souls’ Day, the second of November in God’s Year 1160, a solemn church ceremony joined in wedlock Henry and Eleanor’s eldest son and the daughter of the French king. Because of the extreme youth of the bride and groom, a papal dispensation was required. But it so happened that there were two papal legates then at the English king’s court, and they graciously agreed to waive any objections to the union. Louis was not invited to the wedding. Henry explained when asked that they’d assumed Louis was too busy preparing for his own nuptials to attend.
Afterward, there was an elaborate wedding feast in the great hall of Rouen’s castle. Fresh, sweet-smelling rushes had been put down upon the floor, the walls were adorned with richly woven hangings, the trestle tables draped in white linen, set with silver saltcellars and gilded cups and flagons and even knives, for while dinner guests were usually expected to provide their own cutlery, no expense had been spared to make this a memorable meal.
Regrettably, the Church calendar had not cooperated, for All Souls’ Day fell on a Wednesday that year, and Wednesday was traditionally a fast day to remind Christians of another infamous Wednesday, when Judas had accepted blood money for his promise to betray the Son of God. Denied the meat that was the fare of choice, the royal cooks labored long and hard to create a fish menu that would still satisfy the highborn guests. The meal consisted of three courses, each containing three or four dishes, and it soon became apparent that the cooks had done themselves proud, both in the quality and variety of the cuisine: baked lampreys; gingered carp; jel lied pike in aspic; a spiced salmon pie baked with figs, raisins, and dates; almond rice; cucumber soup; apple and parsnip fritters; and a dish valued all the more for its rarity, sea-swine or porpoise pudding.
Each course concluded with a sugared subtlety sculpted to resemble swans or unicorns, and the servers were kept busy refilling cups with claret and hippocras and a sweet, heavy wine from Cyprus. Minstrels sang and provided music with harp and lute. The fortunate guests agreed happily amongst themselves that this was a meal to savor, one worthy of the tables of the king’s chancellor.
Since the little bride was not yet three, it had been wisely decided to excuse her from the revelries, although Hal had been given a seat upon the dais. So far he was acquitting himself well, seduced into good behavior by the sheer novelty of it all and aware, too, that his mother was keeping a sharp eye upon him. The candles turning his bright hair into a crown of gold, he watched his seat-mate, Cardinal William of Pavia, and modeled his manners after the papal legate’s. His proud parents beamed at him fondly, but Eleanor prudently concluded that it would be best to send him off to bed before he got tired and cranky and began to act more like a rambunctious five-year-old than a young king in the making.
Hal wasn’t the only one on his best behavior. Festivities like this usually bored Henry beyond endurance, for he never liked sitting still for long; even during Mass, he was likely to start squirming on his prayer cushion and whispering to his companions if the priest’s sermon was not mercifully brief. Since he had no particular interest in what he ate or drank, he could not see the purpose in lingering over a meal, which was why he was so willing to let Thomas Becket wine and dine guests on his behalf. But this was his son’s wedding day, after all, and he wanted it to be a pleasant memory for Hal. And if murmurings of the feast’s splendor were to echo all the way to Paris, so much the better.
Reaching for his wine cup, he took a sip, then put it aside. He preferred his wine watered-down, but since he was sharing a cup with Eleanor, he’d deferred to her taste for the products of her Gascony vineyards. The other guests were seated on cushioned benches, but those privileged few upon the dais had the luxury of oaken chairs and Henry leaned back now in his, his gaze sweeping the table.
His mother was chatting amiably with the papal legates, Becket slicing bread for Petronilla, Eleanor beckoning discreetly to Hal’s nurse, the Bishop of Lisieux sharing a joke with the Archbishop of Rouen. At the far end of the table were two knights whose presence had stirred speculation and envy among the other guests. A seat upon the dais was a highly coveted honor, and there were many in the hall who felt themselves to be more deserving than Robert de Pirou and Tostes de St Omer. They were eating heartily of the dessert just set before them, a delectable concoction of cream of almonds and pears floating in heavy syrup, taking care not to get stains upon the white tunics and blood-red crosses of the Templars.
Leaning over, Eleanor laid her hand on Henry’s arm. “The Templars seem to be enjoying themselves,” she said softly. “I assume that they had no misgivings about yielding up the castles of the Vexin to you, then?”
“They were quite reasonable,” Henry said blandly. “And why not? They were to hold the castles only until Louis’s daughter wed our son. And as two papal legates can attest, that condition has now been met.”
Eleanor’s fingers slid along his wrist, began to caress his palm. “I think you could outwit the Devil himself on a good day,” she murmured and laughed when he reminded her that the Counts of Anjou were alleged to trace their descent from the Devil’s daughter.
“My father liked to tell that story,” he said, grinning. “Mayhap we ought to name our next daughter after her? How would you fancy adding a Melusine to our brood, love?”
“Only if you agree to name our next son Lucifer,” she parried and Henry laughed loudly enough to turn heads in their direction. Despite his chaplain’s gentle chiding to thank the Almighty for his manifold blessings, he tended to take God’s Favor for granted. But as he looked now into Eleanor’s shining eyes, he felt a sudden surge of gratitude for all that was his: an empire that stretched from the Scottish borders to the Mediterranean Sea, the most legendary queen since Helen of Troy, sons to found the greatest dynasty Christendom had ever known.
Lifting Eleanor’s hand to his mouth, he kissed her fingers, one by one, and then raised his voice for silence. “I would have us drink,” he said, “to the health and happiness of my beloved son, England’s next king.”
When Louis learned of the wedding in Rouen, he was furious. He could not do much to punish Henry and Eleanor, but he struck back at the Templars, expelling their Order from Paris. Theobald of Blois then convinced him that this was not enough and they began to fortify Theobald’s castle at Chaumont-sur-Loire, casting an eye toward Henry’s lands in Touraine.
This was a mistake. Not bothering to summon the knights of Anjou, Henry hired mercenaries instead and swooped down upon Chaumont. Theobald had boasted that the fortress was impregnable, but Henry took it in just three days, sending shudders of alarm reverberating as far as the walls of Paris.
Sharon Kay Penman
Time and Chance
CHAPTER TEN
January 1161
Notre-Dame-du-Pre
Rouen, Normandy
Henry crossed to the settle and kissed his mother on the cheek. The fact that she’d received him in her private chamber warned him that she had a lecture in mind; she would never berate him, a crowned king and God’s anointed, before witnesses.
“Did you grant that charter to the canons of St Bartholomew, Henry?”
“I did, Mother. You know I always heed your advice.”
Aware that she was being teased, Maude ignored the bait, refusing to be diverted. “I assume your men are being fed in the hall? What of your chancellor? Did he accompany you to the priory?”
“No, I sent Thomas to Caen, as I’ve decided to found a leper hospital there.” Henry was not deceived by the casualness of her query. So Thomas was the quarry for this hunt. “Did you wish to speak with him, Mother?” he asked innocently. “He’ll be back in Rouen within the fortnight.”
“I have a bone to pick with your chancellor… as you’ve guessed. But I have one to pick with you, too, Henry. I have received a distressing letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury. He tells me that his illness is mortal, and it is his dearest wish that he see the two men he loves so well, you and Thomas, ere he dies. Yet he says he has been entreating you both for months to return to England, entreating you in vain.”