Clutching the cloak to his chest, the beggar found himself surrounded by men who’d rarely had a kind word for him, much less a coin. Now, though, they were smiling and slapping him on the back, congrat ulating him on his good fortune. Several even offered to buy him a drink at the local tavern. He was sorely tempted, but as he looked at these spectators crowding around him, he saw how their eyes caressed and coveted his fine new mantle and he realized that he who’d had nothing now had cause for fear. His anxious gaze flitted from face to face, seeking a protector. His relief was vast when a priest stepped from the crowd and suggested that he give thanks to Almighty God for this blessing.
With some difficulty, the priest disengaged him from his newfound friends, steering him across the High Street toward the church precincts. “You must be heedful, Leonard, for there are those who would take advantage of your good fortune. Better that you shun those ne’er-do-wells who are always to be found in taverns and alehouses, no matter the time of day. They will be seeking to get the chancellor’s cloak, by guile or force if need be. It might be better if you gave it as an offering to the church… safer for you, I mean. I am sure we can find another cloak for you in the collection for the poor, one that is warm but not so tempting to the greedy or godless.”
Stumbling to keep pace with the priest, Leonard was only half-listening. He was still bewildered, his thoughts in a whirl, his fingers hesitantly stroking the soft scarlet wool as if he expected it to be snatched from his grasp at any moment. Halting to catch his breath, he said beseechingly, “Those great lords… who were they, Father? Who were they?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
February 1162
Rouen, Normandy
The Empress Maude was very pleased that Henry had scheduled a Great Council to be held in late February at Rouen, for his peripatetic itinerary would have given a nomad pause. Rarely in one place for more than a few days, he was usually to be found on the roads of his vast realms, hearing petitioners and dispensing royal justice and punishing recalcitrant vassals with the same zest that he displayed in hunting for stags and wild boar. Maude cherished their infrequent reunions, and Shrove Tuesday got off to a joyful start when she learned upon awakening that her son had reached Rouen the night before.
It had been snowing sporadically since midnight, and the priory garth was glistening in the morning sun. Maude’s spirits dimmed briefly at the sight of her horse litter. Swinging like a hammock between the shafts, the litter was a more comfortable way to travel than by cart, and although men resorted to it only if they were infirm or elderly, it was an acceptable mode of transportation for women. But to Maude, the litter was incontrovertible proof of her failing health, and she was tight-lipped as her attendants assisted her to climb inside. Was it truly more than twenty years since she’d fled the siege of Winchester, riding astride like a man with an enemy army in pursuit?
The priory of Notre-Dame-du-Pre was located on the outskirts of Rouen, and the castle walls were soon in sight. In the inner bailey, servants hastily brought out a small stool for Maude’s convenience. But as she straightened up, a snowball whizzed by her head, thudding into the litter’s open door and splattering her mantle.
There was stifled laughter from the bystanders. Maude saw no humor in it, though, and swung around to confront the culprit, only to find herself face to face with her son. “Henry!”
Coming forward with a guilty grin, Henry gave her a quick hug. “Sorry, Mother, my aim was off.”
“He was trying to hit me, and missed by a mile!” Eleanor sauntered up to greet her mother-in-law, laughing over Maude’s shoulder at her husband. She was flushed with the cold, her face becomingly framed in a hood of soft ermine, snow drops melting on her skin like jeweled tears. She looked astonishingly young and very beautiful and utterly alien to Maude, who could not imagine why a queen and mother would so forget her dignity by engaging in a public snowball fight with her own husband.
“Have you both lost your senses? Surely you can find more appropriate ways to amuse yourselves,” she scolded, “than this unseemly tomfoolery!”
“You’re absolutely right,” Henry agreed, but his grin gave him away even before he added, “Eleanor started it.”
“Who dumped snow down whose neck? The truth, Maude, is that Harry could not resist the sight of that unsullied snow. He had to leave his footprints out in it, for all the world to see.”
Henry laughed, then escorted Maude away from the horse litter. “Did you ever see such a splendid day, Mother? Look at the sun on the snow; it is well nigh bright enough to blind you. Let’s go into the gardens. I have something I want to discuss with you both.”
Maude was much more susceptible now to cold than she’d been in her youth, but she was too proud to admit it. In a sense, it was rather flattering that her son seemed oblivious to the increasing frailties of age, still seeing her as the robust, resolute woman who’d known neither fear nor forgiveness, England’s uncrowned, cheated queen. The gardens were deserted, but they did have an austere beauty, the barren earth blanketed now under sparkling drifts, the bare shrubs dusted in white, holly bushes gleaming like emeralds against the snow. Escorting the women toward a bench, Henry brushed it clear, then had to blow upon his hands to warm them, for he rarely bothered with gloves.
“I want to talk to you,” he said, “about finding a new Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Maude refrained from pointing out that it was about time; the See of Canterbury had been vacant for the past ten months. “As I’ve told you,” she said, “you could do no better than the Bishop of Hereford. Gilbert Foliot would be a fine choice, erudite and intelligent and ascetic, as befitting a man of God.”
“I considered Foliot, but I have a better candidate.”
“Surely not the Bishop of Winchester? I know he is one of England’s senior churchmen, Henry, but the man could teach Judas about betrayal!”
“Do you truly think I’d so honor Stephen’s brother? No, Mother, I have someone else in mind, an astute administrator who is both shrewd and subtle and utterly trustworthy.”
Eleanor’s smile was faintly skeptical. “Do not keep us in suspense, Harry. Who is this unlikely paragon of virtue and efficiency?”
“Thomas Becket.”
Both women stared at him “Is this one of your jests, Henry?” Maude sounded uncertain, for his humor had always eluded her. But Eleanor read him better than his mother did, and she’d stiffened, her eyes riveted upon his face.
“No, it is not a jest,” he said, somewhat impatiently, for this was not the response he’d expected. “I am quite serious. As my chancellor, Thomas has proven his worth more times than I could begin to count. He is clever, loyal, and occasionally crafty. Why would he not make a superior archbishop?”
“Possibly because he is not even a priest.” As soon as Eleanor heard herself, she knew she’d struck the wrong note. Sarcasm would only put her husband on the defensive. But she’d been taken by surprise, and was vexed that she’d not seen this coming. For the idea did make a certain skewed sense. Harry and Becket had worked well in tandem for the past seven years. The inevitable clashes between the Church and Crown would be much easier to resolve if England’s king and England’s archbishop were in rare accord and of one mind-Harry’s mind.
Almost as if guessing her thoughts, Henry said, “I am not seeking a puppet. Canterbury’s Holy See cannot be governed by a man without stature or integrity. Thomas has both, and more innate ability and common sense than any bishop in Christendom. If it is just a matter of taking vows, that is remedied easily enough.”