Becket had finally reached the crux of the matter. “Know that I shall observe the customs of your kingdom in good faith, and I shall be obedient to you in all things that are just and right.”
Eleanor’s head turned sharply toward Henry. It was true that Becket had dropped the qualifying phrase, “saving our order,” but that still did not sound to her like an unconditional offer of obedience. Henry showed no displeasure, though, at the form of the archbishop’s declaration. As his eyes met Eleanor’s, a corner of his mouth curved down and a brow went up, an expression she recognized at once: one of ironic amusement. And she knew then that her husband had a surprise in store for his archbishop. Bemused and irked that he had not seen fit to confide in her beforehand, she waited to see what it was.
“All know,” Henry said, “how stubborn you were in your opposition, my lord archbishop, and how careless you were of my royal dignity by contradicting me so arrantly in public. If you are now resolved to honor me as you ought, it is only fair that the retraction should be made in as public a manner as your defiance was. Therefore, I would have you convene the bishops and abbots and the other eminent ecclesiastics, and I for my part will summon my barons and lords, so that these words restoring my honor can be uttered in their presence and hearing.”
Becket swung around to exchange glances with the papal envoy. Neither man had expected this, having been led to believe that Henry would be satisfied with a recantation here at Woodstock. But it was not an unreasonable demand and could not be refused without giving fresh offense. “If that is your wish,” Becket said, “so be it.”
Henry nodded. “We will meet in a month’s time, then,” he said, so nonchalantly that Eleanor alone realized what had just occurred. Becket and the papal envoy thought the dispute was done, when, in truth, it was only beginning.
Henry chose to spend his Christmas court that year at Berkhampsted, the castle he’d reclaimed from Thomas Becket.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
January 1164
Clarendon, England
The Countess of Chester reached Clarendon at dusk. She knew her son was not going to be pleased to see her, but this was his first summons to the king’s council and she could not resist the temptation to watch him playing a man’s role. Hugh was a good-natured boy whose greatest flaw was that he was too easily influenced, too eager to please. Maud was not a woman who’d ever harbored illusions and she knew her firstborn was ordinary, a banked fire at best. She loved him fiercely, though, intensely grateful to God that he was so unlike the unstable, savage man who’d sired him, and now that he was in attendance upon the king, she meant to see that none of the court wolves harried her lamb.
Hugh was indeed embarrassed by her maternal solicitude, but too excited by the day’s high drama to make more than a perfunctory protest. “Have you seen the king yet, Mama? Did you hear what happened?”
“I spoke with Harry and Eleanor but briefly, upon my arrival. I could see that he was in a temper, though. Did he and Thomas Becket lock horns again?”
Hugh nodded solemnly. “When the council began, Cousin Harry declared that it was not enough for the archbishop and the other bishops to swear to obey the ancient customs of the realm. He said that was too vague, that there ought to be a clear understanding of what those customs were. But when he started to set them forth, Thomas Becket and the bishops balked, and he flew into a great rage. He… he is a daunting man to defy, Mama.”
Maud thought Henry’s fits of temper were mere child’s play when compared to the lunatic furies of her late husband. “I am sure that is exactly what he wants men to think, Hugh. Tell me about these customs. What are they, precisely?”
Hugh looked uncomfortable. “I cannot recall each and every one,” he said, so vaguely that she realized he’d been paying more heed to the fire’s flames than to the fuel feeding it. “There was talk of criminous clerks again, and I think the king wants to limit papal appeals…”
Maud didn’t bother to interrogate him further; it was obvious that she needed a more knowledgeable source than her sixteen-year-old son. And she had just the man in mind. “Where,” she asked, “is your uncle Roger?”
All but three of the bishops had answered the king’s summons to Clarendon, and no less than ten earls and numerous barons. Clarendon could not accommodate them all, and the participants had been forced to find lodgings in Old Sarum, four miles to the west, in nearby villages, even camping out in Clarendon’s deer park. Becket had quartered his retinue at Old Sarum, as had many of the other bishops, but Maud’s brother, the Bishop-elect of Worcester, had accepted the hospitality of the Augustinian canons at Ivychurch, a small priory just two miles from Clarendon, and it was there that she tracked him down long after darkness had fallen.
Unsullied snow shrouded the inner garth, ghostly white in the pallid moonlight. The night sky was clear of clouds, the air cold and crisp, with no hint of wind. The cloisters were quiet, providing a welcome refuge from the strife and rancor of Clarendon. Fatigue was deeply etched in the lines around Roger’s mouth, the furrows in his brow. His dark eyes had lit with pleasure, though, at the sight of Maud.
Worldly and cynical as she might appear to others, to Roger she would always be the guardian angel of his childhood, the glamorous elder sister who never forgot a birthday or betrayed a confidence, now the last link to his past. He’d been faithful to his vows, had sired no bastard children like the Bishop of Salisbury, had never taken a concubine or hearth-mate. His brothers were either dead, like Hamon and Philip, living in Normandy, like Richard, or one of God’s fools, like Will. Maud was all the family he had left.
Taking his arm, she let him lead her toward a bench in one of the sheltered carrels. “Is Ranulf at Clarendon?”
“No, his wife’s lying-in is nigh, and he was loath to leave her. Nor is our cousin Will here, either.”
That Maud already knew; Will had departed for Rouen soon after Christmas, seeking to find some solace in his mother’s sympathy. “Poor Will. He deserves better than to be made a pawn in this infernal chess game Harry and Becket are playing.”
Roger’s frown was faintly discernible in the blanched moonlight. “I can assure you, Maud, that the archbishop’s objections to Will’s marriage are valid. Canon law prohibits marriage if the man and woman are related within the seventh degree, either by blood or marriage. Will and Isabella de Warenne’s husband were third cousins. Moreover, the girl herself is kin to Will through William the Bastard.”
“Then that makes her kin to her husband, too, does it not? So why was that marriage permitted and Will’s denied? Would Christendom have been imperiled had a dispensation been granted? For pity’s sake, Roger, Harry and Eleanor are distant cousins, too!”
“Yes, but the archbishop was not asked to pass judgment upon the validity of their marriage,” he pointed out, so reasonably that she groaned.
“You sound just like Papa,” she said, “always so rational and logical!” If it was a complaint, it was also a compliment. Neither one could envision a greater tribute than a comparison with the father they’d both adored. After a moment, they smiled at each other in unspoken acknowledgment of that family fact, and Maud said forthrightly:
“I do not want to quarrel with you. We will never see eye to eye upon the merits or the motives of your friend, Thomas Becket. But if you hold him in such esteem, I may have been too hasty in my judgment.”
“I wish I could convince you of Thomas’s sincerity. He seeks only to protect the Mother Church. Mayhap he has not always been as tactful as he ought-”
That was too much for Maud, who gave a derisive hoot. “Come now, Roger. The word you are groping for is foolhardy, not tactless. Bearbaiting may well be an exciting sport for some, but it is a most dangerous one, too.”