Chichester paused for maximum dramatic impact and Henry’s eyes flashed dangerously. “What?”
“Becket was ever one for the grand gesture,” Chichester said scornfully. “He knelt again, began to weep, and resigned the archbishopric of Canterbury for the good of the Church, he said, and offered his archiepiscopal ring to the Holy Father. Alas, my liege, the Holy Father was moved by his tears and returned the ring, saying ‘Receive anew at our hands the cure of the episcopal office.’ ”
Everyone in the solar understood the significance of the Pope’s act. The appeal of the other bishops for Becket’s deposition would come to naught. Nor would Henry’s complaints to the Holy See. Thomas Becket would remain as Archbishop of Canterbury, with the Pope’s blessings-and there was nothing Henry could do about it.
There was a prolonged silence, fraught with foreboding, and then the inevitable explosion. Henry’s tempers were known to them all, but even Eleanor had never seen him in such a spectacular rage as this. A sweep of his arm sent the contents of the trestle table flying off into space, books and quill pens and an open inkwell spilling into the floor rushes. With a crash that reverberated throughout the entire room, the table followed, barely missing one of Eleanor’s alarmed greyhounds. The men shrank back from this violent display of royal wrath, only the king’s wife and his cousin Roger standing their ground. Henry overturned a chair, then swung around upon Gilbert Foliot.
“I shall issue an order confiscating all of that whoreson’s possessions down to the last farthing and the forfeiture of the archbishopric. No bishop of mine shall pay revenues to any of Becket’s clerks holding prebends within their sees. Will any Church objections be raised to my writ, my lord bishop?”
Foliot swallowed. “No, my liege… no objections.”
“Now… what burrow has our snake found for the winter? Is he still at the Papal Curia in Sens?”
“No, Your Grace,” Foliot said swiftly, grateful that he had at least a scrap of good news to offer Henry. “The Holy Father’s actions were not as one-sided as the Bishop of Chichester related. Whilst he did refuse Becket’s resignation and condemned the Constitutions of Clarendon, he did not censure me or my fellow bishops as Becket expected, and he most certainly did not make him welcome at the papal court. He has sent Becket off to the Cistercian abbey at Pontigny. So you see, my liege, all is not as bleak as it might first have seemed.”
His words did not have the desired effect. They did not even seem to have registered with Henry. “Pontigny,” he echoed. “Good… let them go there then and seek shelter from him.”
Foliot looked confused; nor was he the only one. “Who, my lord king?” the Earl of Arundel asked in bewilderment. “Who shall seek shelter?”
“All of Becket’s household still in England, and their kin as well. They are to join him in exile, every last one of them. Let him see for himself what misery he has brought upon his own. And let the French king provide for their bread if Becket will not!”
The others were speechless, staring at him in disbelief. Oddly enough, it was the opportunist who spoke up first. Hilary of Chichester cleared his throat, then said hesitantly, “My liege, I implore you to reconsider. If you banish all of Becket’s family and clerks, I fear you will be harshly judged for it by your enemies.”
“Let them! You think I care?”
“My liege…” Gilbert Foliot had never lacked for courage-until now. “I think once your anger cools, you will not want to-”
“Who are you to tell me what I want? Becket should have thought of the consequences when he fled in the night like a thief. There is always a price to be paid for betrayal and he is about to find that out, by God!” The disapproval Henry saw reflected on their faces only fanned his fury all the higher. Gesturing toward the door, he ordered them all out. “After failing me so abysmally in Compiegne and Sens, why should I listen to you now? Go on, get out!”
They did, some hastily enough to compromise their dignity. Only Roger dared to protest further. Reaching the door, he paused, meeting his cousin’s eyes without flinching. “This is wrong, Harry,” he said in a low voice. “Wrong and unjust.”
He did not linger; he knew better than that. As the door closed behind him, Henry swore again. But before he could react, a cushion was suddenly shoved into his hand. “Here,” Eleanor said. “If you must destroy something, fling this about. It is much easier to mend a pillow than a table.”
Henry was not amused. “I’m glad you’re taking it in such good humor that I’ve just been stabbed in the back by that gutless weasel you married!”
“A pity there is no way you can blame Becket’s misdeeds on me, too!”
“If you are about to remind me that you opposed Becket’s elevation to the archbishopric, trust me, Eleanor-this is not the time!”
“Actually, I have a far more recent grievance. I entreated you not to send Louis that letter, warned you it would do you more harm than good, did I not? And as usual, you paid me no heed whatsoever!”
“For the love of Christ, woman, let it lie! Can you not see that I’m in no mood to deal with this now?”
“Fine,” she said tartly. “Forget about Louis and the fact that you were the one to provide the dagger for that back-stabbing. Let’s talk, instead, about your plan to banish those poor souls whose only offense is that they are related to Becket either by blood or service. Surely you do not mean that, Harry.”
“Surely I do.”
“Then this interminable feuding with Becket has well and truly addled your mind!”
“This is none of your concern! I am heartily sick of your meddling, Eleanor, will have no more of it!”
“If you bid me be silent, then of course I will,” Eleanor responded, with poisonous sweetness, “for like any dutiful and devoted wife, I live only to please you.” With a deep, graceful curtsy, she swept toward the door, where she paused, her hand on the latch, a quizzical smile upon her face. “About that ‘weasel’ I married… You were referring to Louis, were you not?”
He glared at her. “Damn you, Eleanor!”
“Likewise, my love,” she retorted, and left him alone in the solar.
On the day after Christmas, Henry followed through on his threat and expelled as many as four hundred people, including Becket’s sisters and nephews, his clerks and servants and their families. A steady steam of refugees made their miserable way to Pontigny and Thomas Becket was indeed distressed, as Henry had intended. But it was a Pyrrhic victory, one that left a lasting stain upon Henry’s honor and his reputation.
Henry and Eleanor patched up their Christmas Eve quarrel the way they usually did, in bed, and when they departed Marlborough, she was pregnant again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
May 1165
Trefriw, North Wales
War had come to Wales, but the first battle was being fought in the great hall of Rhodri’s manor in the hills above Trefriw. The summons from the English king had erupted in their midst with devastating impact, as incendiary as Greek fire and as difficult to extinguish. For days now, the quarrel had raged and showed no signs of abating. Rhodri had argued with Ranulf until his voice cracked. Eleri had been reduced to angry tears more than once, and Celyn had overcome his natural reticence to plead with surprising passion. Even the self-absorbed Enid had roused herself to observe that it would be folly to obey the summons, for if Ranulf fought against the Welsh, he would alienate his family and friends and neighbors beyond forgiving.
Ranulf already knew that. He was painfully aware how high the stakes were. If he answered the summons, he was likely to forfeit all that he held most dear in this life. But if he did not? Disloyalty to his king was a sin of such magnitude that it was almost beyond his comprehension. It went to the very core of his integrity, his identity. He had supported his sister over Stephen and never wavered in that allegiance because Maude’s claim was just and Stephen’s was not, even after it cost him the woman he loved. Harry was his liege lord, his blood kin. Could he betray that bond-and live with it afterward?