The Plantagenet Prelude - Plaidy Jean (книги серия книги читать бесплатно полностью .TXT) 📗

‘Clever he may be,’ said Matilda, ‘but I warn you. Make sure he is not too clever.’

‘You will see what a brilliant move this is on my part. This will be an end to the strife between Church and State.’

It was only a day or so after that conversation that Henry fell into one of the greatest rages that ever had overtaken him.

A messenger had arrived from Canterbury, bringing with him the Great Seal of Office. Henry looked at it in dismay for he began to understand what it meant. There was a letter from Thomas and as the King read it a mist swam before his eyes.

‘By God’s eyes, Thomas,’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘I could kill you for this.’

Thomas had written that he must resign his Chancellorship for he could not reconcile his two posts. The Archbishop must be quite apart from the Chancellor.

Thomas had a new master. The Church.

Henry’s rage almost choked him. This was the very thing his mother had prophesied. This was the implication behind Eleanor’s sneers. He had believed in Thomas’s love for him; he had thought their friendship more important than anything else. So it had seemed to him. But not to Thomas.

He remembered Thomas’s words. It would be the end of their friendship.

Only if the Chancellor and the Archbishop were as one could Henry’s battle with the Church be won. If Thomas was going to set himself up on one side while he was on the other there would be conflict between them.

His grandfather had fought with the Church. Was he to do the same...with Thomas?

And he had thought himself so clever. He was going to avoid that. He was going to put his friend into the Church so that the Church would be subservient to the State – so that the King would rule and none gainsay him. Henry Plantagenet had planned to have no Pope over him.

And this man...who called himself his friend, to whom he had given so much...had betrayed him. He had accepted the Archbishopric and resigned from the Chancellorship.

‘By God, Thomas,’ he said, ‘if you wish there to be war between us, then war there shall be. And I shall be the victor. Make no mistake about that.’

Then the violence of his rage overcame him. He beat his fist against the wall and it was Thomas’s face he saw there.

He kicked the stool around the chamber and it was Thomas he kicked.

None dared approach him until his rage abated. They all knew how violent the King’s temper could be.

Eleanor and Henry took their farewell of Matilda and traveled to Barfleur. The King had declared he would spend Christmas at Westminster.

His anger against Thomas had had time to cool. He reasoned with himself. Thomas had reluctantly taken the Archbishopric and he had in some measure forced it upon him. Therefore he must not complain if Thomas resigned the Chancellorship. It was disappointing but he might have known that Thomas would do exactly as he had done. He was after all a cleric.

There will be battles between us, thought Henry. Well, there have always been battles of a kind. It will be stimulating, amusing. I long to see Thomas again.

Eleanor said: ‘I’ll dare swear your Archbishop is trembling in his shoes as he awaits your arrival.’

‘That is something Thomas would never do.’

‘If he has heard what a mighty rage you were in when you heard he had resigned the Chancellorship, he will surely not expect you to greet him lovingly.’

‘He is a man of great integrity. He would always do what he believed to be right.’

‘So he is forgiven? How you love that man! I’ll warrant you can scarcely wait to enjoy his sparkling discourse. And only a short while ago you were cursing him. What a fickle man you are, Henry!’

‘Nay,’ answered Henry, ‘rather say I am constant, although I may be enraged for a time that passes.’

‘Your servants know it. All they must do is anger you, keep out of your way and then return to be forgiven.’

‘You know that is not true,’ he said and closed the conversation.

Do not think, she mused, that I may be thrust aside for a while and then taken back. You may be in a position to subjugate others but not Eleanor of Aquitaine. I shall never forget that you placed your bastard into my nurseries to be brought up with my sons. Richard was now six. She had watched his manner with his father. He was all for his mother, and would be more so. And Richard was the most beautiful and most promising of their children. Henry the eldest had already gone to Becket and clearly doted on the man. Little Geoffrey was too young to show a preference.

Henry could have the adulation of his little bastard and be content with that, but when the time came it was his legitimate children who would inherit their parents’ possessions. Richard should be Duke of Aquitaine; on that she had decided. He could already sing charmingly and loved to play the lute.

At Barfleur they waited for the wind to abate. It would be folly to set to sea in such weather. But day after day it raged and it became apparent that they could not be in Westminster for Christmas.

There were festivities at Cherbourg, but it was not the same. Eleanor would have liked to be with her children on Christmas Day. She had planned an entertainment for them with minstrels and dancers and she knew that young Richard would have enjoyed that and shone too above the rest of them. He would have made bastard Geoffrey seem an oaf.

It was not until nearing the end of January that they set sail.

When they reached Southampton Thomas Becket and their son Henry were waiting there to greet them. Henry, eight years old, had grown since they last saw him. He knelt before them and his father laid his hand on his head. He was pleased with his son’s progress. There was nothing gauche about the boy. That was due to Thomas.

And Thomas? He and the King looked at each other steadily. Thomas was clearly uncertain what to expect.

Then the King burst out laughing.

‘Well, my Chancellor that was and my Archbishop that is, how fare you?’

And all was well between them.

On the journey to London the King rode side by side with his Archbishop and every now and then the King’s laughter rang out. There was a contented gleam in his eyes. There was no one who could amuse him like Thomas.

As they neared the end of the ride he referred to his anger when he had received the news of Thomas’s resignation.

‘I guessed it would be so,’ said Thomas.

‘Yet you dared provoke it.’

‘It was inevitable. I knew I could not remain Chancellor. That was why I did not wish to become Archbishop in the first place. I was certain that it would impair our friendship.’

‘There will be battles between us, Thomas. But by God’s eyes, I’d rather have battles with you than docility from any other man.’

‘Nay,’ answered Thomas, ‘harmony is best.’

‘See,’ retorted the King. ‘You disagree with me already.’

Thomas smiled ruefully as he gazed at the darkening sky over Westminster.

Summer had come. The King had ridden to Woodstock and there had found many an opportunity to slip away to Rosamund. She was delighted to have him with her after his long absence abroad. The children had grown and danced round him to see what gifts he had brought them while Rosamund reproved them gently. What did gifts matter, she demanded, when they had their dear father with them?

‘I would that I could come to you more often, Rosamund,’ he told her. ‘Here I find a peace which elsewhere is denied me.’

The fact that he kept his liaison with her a secret apart from one or two who must inevitably know of it – gave it a touch of romance which he had never known with any of his other mistresses.

‘Has anyone come to the house?’ he always asked her.

One or two people had, she told him. They had wandered through the maze of trees and by chance arrived there.

They had been strangers who had not associated her with the King.