"Was he conciliatory?" Eleanor wanted to know. "Did he come in the same spirit of friendship?"

"Yes, I think so," Henry answered. "Although neither of us referred to the Const.i.tutions of Clarendon. We'll have to tackle that issue sometime, and until then I have forborne to give Thomas the kiss of peace, although I have promised to do so when I return to England. I just haven't said when." He looked at her with a trace of his former mischievous grin.

"So you gave him permission to return to Canterbury?"

"Yes, but before I could make any arrangements, I fell ill with that d.a.m.ned fever."

Kneeling beside Henry now, and remembering how they had brought her piece after piece of ill news-that he was unwell, that his life was despaired of, that he had made his will-and how, for one long, dreadful day, she had believed a false report that he was dead, Eleanor shuddered. Confronting mortality certainly had a profound effect on her husband: it was he who had insisted on making this pilgrimage to give thanks for his recovery, and on her coming with him. Had he repented of his immoral life? Was Rosamund still his mistress? She dared not ask.

Their thanks offered, and feeling the better for it, they emerged into the sunlight and began the long descent to the valley below, where their horses waited. Then Henry rode with Eleanor north through Aquitaine, and at Poitiers he helped her catch up on the business left in abeyance during her absence. It was then that he told her he had broken their daughter Eleanor's betrothal to the son of the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa.

"The Emperor is no longer my friend," he explained. "It will be far more profitable to me to extend my influence south of the Pyrenees by marrying Young Eleanor to King Alfonso of Castile. She shall have Gascony as her dowry. Yes, I know, Gascony is yours," he added hastily, seeing his wife's face. "She shall have it only on your death."

"Very well," Eleanor agreed. "It will be a good match for her."

It was soon time for Henry to depart for Normandy.

"I will be arranging a safe-conduct for Becket to return to England," he said. "I will let Young Henry know that his reinstatement as Archbishop has my full approval. Then I shall meet again with Becket before he departs-and try to avoid mentioning the Const.i.tutions of Clarendon!"

"May G.o.d be with you, my lord," Eleanor said formally. In truth, she was sad to see him go.

"And with you, my lady," Henry answered, his eyes searching hers, and meeting only an unfathomable stare.

40.

Chaumont-sur-Loire, 1170

When the Archbishop entered the great hall of the castle of Chaumont, shivering in the dank chill of a November afternoon, the King rose to his feet, walked forward, and warmly embraced him. The two men gazed upon each other for a s.p.a.ce.

"Welcome, my friend," said Henry.

Thomas looked perturbed. "My lord," he confessed, "I am afraid."

"There is no need," Henry rea.s.sured him. "All is ready for your return."

"It is not that," Becket said quietly. "My mind tells me that I will never see you again in this life."

Henry stiffened. What was the man saying? His anger rose like bile.

"I told you, Thomas, I have smoothed the way for you. What do you take me for? A traitor to my word? Do you think I have plotted to have you done away with, and am sending you to your doom?"

"G.o.d forbid, my lord!" Becket cried. "Nothing was further from my mind. It was but a premonition of some evil."

But Henry was barely mollified. "Then give it no credence!" he snapped. "I shall see you in England, make no doubt of it."

"I hope so, my lord," Becket said. "Farewell." Henry just glared at him and watched him leave, a monk bearing his crozier in tow.

41.

Bures, 1170

Henry had summoned Eleanor to keep Christmas with him at his hunting lodge at Bures in Normandy, and there she was, on Christmas Day itself, seated beside him at the high table, resplendent in her green fur-trimmed bliaut and her great mantle of crimson damask. Most of their children were present also, seated farther along the board, above the salt, as was fitting. Richard was beside his mother, next to Geoffrey and Constance; decorous Joanna and even John, now a tousle-haired, unruly four-year-old, had been brought from Fontevrault for the occasion; Young Eleanor, sadly, had to be left in the care of the nuns, for she was suffering from a winter ague and was deemed unfit to travel. The Young King was, of course, not here: he was in England, holding his first Christmas court at Winchester.

It was late, and, seeing the King and his lords becoming rather the worse for wear after a surfeit of rich food and wine, the Queen signaled to the nurse to take the younger children to bed. "You go too, Constance," she said. The pert girl made a face but dared not disobey. After she was gone, Richard and Geoffrey fell happily to squabbling over a game of dice, and Eleanor tried to join in the increasingly incoherent conversation at the table.

She was just thinking of retiring for the night when the steward entered the hall and announced the arrival of the Archbishop of York and the Bishops of London and Salisbury. "They crave an audience, sire. They have come all the way from England," he said.

"In this foul weather?" Eleanor was immediately concerned to know what their arrival portended. Surely the bishops would not have attempted to cross the turbulent Channel unless they had urgent news to impart.

Henry had suddenly sobered up.

"Show them in," he ordered, then, belching, rose to receive them.

The formalities briefly disposed of, the tall and cultivated Archbishop Roger spoke gravely for all three, with the whole court hanging on every word.

"Lord King, we come to make complaint of the high-handed conduct of His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury."

Henry groaned. "What has he done now?" he hissed.

"He has excommunicated the three of us, this very morning, from his pulpit at Canterbury, for our part in the coronation," the Archbishop announced. As the barons erupted in shouts of fury, Henry stared at him in shock.

"But that was all resolved," he said.

"This is outrageous," Eleanor murmured, appalled at Becket's duplicity. "It is not the way to make amends!"

"Apparently it was not resolved," Bishop Foliot of London growled. "It seems he has been cherishing his anger against those who defied him. I never had much opinion of him, as you know, and it seems I was right to doubt him. Sire, the Pope should be told of his disobedience."

"By the eyes of G.o.d, Becket shall suffer for this!" Henry shouted, his voice vibrating with ire and indignation. "Is this how he repays my offer of friendship?"

"My lord," said the Earl of Leicester, sitting nearby, "enough is enough. While Thomas lives, you will not have peace or quiet, or see good days."

"By G.o.d, you speak truth!" Henry cried, furious and indignant. "Becket has gone too far this time. He is doing this only to spite me, and yet he brazenly claims to be defending the honor of G.o.d."

"It is his own honor he holds so dear," Eleanor said, keeping her tone even, for she realized that Henry was getting perilously close to a full-scale display of the famously ungovernable Plantagenet temper. "He is puffed up with the sin of pride. My lord, you must appeal to the Pope."

"I will have him defrocked!" Henry spluttered, banging his fist on the table so hard that several goblets were overturned. "And then, when his office can no longer protect him, I will proceed against him as a traitor!"

"Get His Holiness on your side first," Eleanor urged, but Henry wasn't listening; he was so distracted with anger that he was beside himself, spewing a fiery stream of wild threats, to the point where his outraged courtiers ceased their indignant chatter and watched him in amazement. Presently, seeing he was the object of their incredulous stares, he ceased his tirade and stood there shaking in a menacing, deadly silence, raking the room with narrowed, bloodshot eyes. Eleanor shivered. She had never seen him so consumed with hatred. She ventured to lay a calming hand on his arm, but he angrily shook her off and directed his terrifying gaze at his nervous court.

"What cowards you all are!" he hissed. "I curse you all! Yes, a curse, a curse, on all the false varlets and traitors whom I have nursed and promoted in my household, who allow their lord and king to be mocked with such shameful contempt by a lowborn priest!"

There was a stunned hush. No one dared speak. Clearly, no one knew how to respond.

"Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?" Henry shouted, then sat down heavily and slumped with his head in his hands, his shoulders heaving as, all around him, people looked at one another helplessly.

Eleanor was up on her feet in an instant, folding her arms around Henry, all other considerations set aside in her desire to alleviate his pain. So engrossed was she in her efforts to console him that, like many others present at that fateful feast, she did not espy four stalwart knights slipping away from the hall, their faces alight with purpose, their hands grasping their sword hilts.

Henry came to her bed that night, for the first time in almost five years. He came for comfort, rather than for s.e.x, although he would have died before admitting it. And she, knowing his need, welcomed him back, and they were gentle with each other, embracing tightly, not having to say anything. It felt strange-and unexpectedly delightful-to have Henry in her arms again. For this feeling she was ready to forgive him anything. She was deeply moved that at this moment of crisis he had turned to her before all others. And so, when the need for comfort translated itself into the need for something deeper, and he moved toward her in the old familiar way, and entered her, she felt only joy, and a beautiful inner peace that made her want to weep.

Their lovemaking was not the explosion of l.u.s.t and fire it had once been-that was long ago, and they were both, quite obviously, older now-but it was gloriously satisfying, and her climax, when it eventually came-for she was quite out of practice, she thought ruefully-was shattering. It was as if all the pent-up desire of the barren, loveless years had been released in one go.

When the waves of pleasure had ebbed away, Eleanor lay quiet with Henry's arm about her, thinking that the long separation had allowed time for her wounds to heal and for many matters to be put in perspective. The old saw about absence making the heart grow fonder was very apposite, she realized. And the sensual meeting of two skins between the sheets was sweetly conducive to full reconciliation. Rosamund or no Rosamund, if Henry wanted her, she was ready to go back to him.

But when at length Henry spoke to her, it was not about any future they might have together. "Eleanor, something is troubling me. Just before I left the hall, the steward told me that four of my knights had left the castle not long before. He thought it strange that they should go abroad so late on Christmas night."

"Do you know who they were?" Eleanor asked.

"Yes. William de Tracy, who was once Becket's chancellor; Reginald FitzUrse, Richard de Brito, and Hugh de Morville. Hugh's done good work as my justice in the north of England. From what I could make out, they left just after ..." Henry's voice tailed off. He could not find words to describe his fit of rage.

Eleanor was suddenly suffused with alarm. She sat up abruptly.

"Oh, no! I hope to G.o.d they have not taken you literally at your word!"

"At my word?" Henry raised himself on an elbow.

"You do not remember? You asked for someone to rid you of Becket! You called him a turbulent priest."

Henry leaped out of bed and reached for his robe. "I must summon the knights back!" he cried, and was out of the door before he had barely covered his modesty, shouting to his guards. But it was too late. The four knights were long gone.

Eleanor spent the next two days with dread in her heart. Henry was convinced that his unthinking outburst was going to have disastrous consequences, and privately she shared his foreboding. But her words were all of rea.s.surance.

"My lord, you have sent men after them, so rest easy. And surely no man would even contemplate committing violence on the Archbishop of Canterbury?"

Henry turned frightened eyes to her. "They heard me denigrate his office. They might well be convinced that his removal would put an end to this interminable quarrel, and actually serve the Church's interests."

"I hardly think they will go that far," Eleanor reasoned, with more confidence than she felt. "Mayhap they have gone to tell Becket a few home truths and frighten him into submission. After all, the Pope must support you; Becket cannot win. He is done for, this time."

"Done for indeed, I fear," Henry muttered. His face was shadowed with foreboding.

42.

Argentan, 1171

Unable to bear the tension, the King abandoned the Yuletide festivities, dismissed his guests, and left with the Queen for Argentan. It was there that Brother Peter, a young monk from England, mud-spattered and exhausted from a hard ride, found him, just as he and Eleanor were entertaining Bishop Arnulf of Lisieux to supper in their private solar.

"Lord King," the monk gasped, falling to his knees for sheer weariness. "I bring terrible news."

Henry went white and clenched his knuckles. The bishop leaped up, sc.r.a.ping back his chair.

"What news?" Eleanor asked sharply.

"My lady, Archbishop Becket has been murdered, slain in his own cathedral two days ago, as he celebrated Vespers."

Eleanor was momentarily speechless, unable to take in the enormity of what she had just heard. "Murdered?" she repeated stupidly. "The Archbishop of Canterbury?"

"He was cruelly slain by four of the King's knights," Brother Peter said, himself deeply distressed.

"Oh, G.o.d!" Henry wailed suddenly, beating his breast. "Thomas, my Thomas! May G.o.d forgive me-this is my doing. I have killed him, as surely as if I strangled him with my own hands." Tears were streaming down his face and great sobs racking his stocky frame.

"May G.o.d avenge him," the bishop murmured, crossing himself, appalled to the very core. "This is surely the worst atrocity I have ever heard of. It is unbelievable that anyone should commit such sacrilege as to slay an archbishop in the house of G.o.d."

Henry turned a ravaged face to him. "It was done for me, at my behest. I am to blame. But as G.o.d is my witness, I loved Thomas, in spite of our quarrel. I spoke those words in anger. I did not mean them to be taken literally. I loved him!" His words were coming between short breaths; he was almost too paralyzed by shock to say more, and the bishop was staring at him, not quite comprehending what he was talking about. Eleanor went swiftly to Henry and would have comforted him, but he turned his back on her. "No-I am not worthy of consolation," he wept bitterly. "Leave me to my terrible grief."

She felt a pang of anguish at being rejected but thrust it away, realizing that Henry needed time to come to terms with what had happened. This was a matter for his confessor, not his wife, although in time he might come to confide in her. For now, she turned her attention to the poor, shivering monk, and herself poured him a goblet of wine. She also handed one to the weeping bishop, who gulped it back gratefully, then she offered another to Henry, but he was too distraught to notice.

"Now," she said to Brother Peter, "please sit down and tell us everything that has happened."