“We must plan another feast,” he said, as an idea was born. “We’ll have it at your house and invite my jealous courtiers. Let them see me giving you all the honor and favor that you merit.”
“Would that be wise?” Becket wondered. “It might be a better idea to hold the feast here, in the palace, since your barons are always grumbling that there is little enough pomp and ceremony at court, and it would look as if you were doing them an honor too.”
“I’m bored by pomp and ceremony,” Henry retorted. “Still, you have a point. And there won’t be much pomp and ceremony when the nobility of England are in their cups!” He chuckled at the thought. “Do you remember them last time, sprawling in the rushes and groping the wenches?”
The chuckle became a belly laugh, and Becket smiled too.
“You plan it, Thomas,” Henry said. “You’re good at these things.”
“What of the ladies? Shall I invite the Queen?” Becket asked.
Henry grinned at him.
“Better not! We’d have to be on our best behavior, and she’ll only complain when we all get drunk.”
“When youget drunk, my prince,” Becket corrected.
“I’ll make a man of you yet, my friend!” Henry jested.
——
Eleanor no longer worried that there might be anything more than friendship on Henry’s part for Becket, but she knew that they were unusually—and disturbingly—close. This was not the kind of comradeship that flourished between fighting men thrown together on military campaigns, but a sort of thralldom, in which Henry hung upon Becket’s every word and preferred his advice to everyone else’s. She had gradually become painfully aware that she was being supplanted, that her husband no longer sought her counsel first, and that he was spending more time with Becket than he did with her. He came to her bed frequently enough, though, and paid her every courtesy out of it, and on the surface all was well between them, but she sensed, more strongly than ever now, that in every other way that counted, Becket was her rival.
It seemed he was deliberately trying to usurp her place in Henry’s affections—and in the affairs of the realm. There had been that crucial matter of patronage. From the time Eleanor had first come to England, she had been deluged with petitions and requests by those who knew her to be influential with the King, and it pleased and flattered her to know that she had the power to change the lives of others for the better. But only a month ago it had been made plain to her that her enjoyment of that power was under threat.
Becket had come upon her as she sat with her clerks, going through the latests pleas from her petitioners. They had made two piles of the parchments—one for those to be ignored, and one for those the Queen would lay before the King, with her own recommendations. But suddenly, almost symbolically, a shadow loomed over the table and the documents, and when she looked up, she saw Becket standing before her. In the fleeting second before he made his bow, she had seen the contempt in his eyes.
“What can I do for you, my Lord Chancellor?” she had asked courteously.
“I think, Madame the Queen, that it is more a case of what I can do for you,” he answered, refusing to meet her gaze, but fixing his eyes on the parchments. “With your leave, I will look after these petitions.”
She was shocked, outraged! The petitions were addressed to her, and it was her privilege, as queen, to deal with them. How dare this upstart deacon insult her so?
Even the clerks were gawping at Becket’s presumption. One man’s jaw had dropped in horror.
Fury blazed in Eleanor’s eyes as she rose from her chair. “My Lord Chancellor, you are new to your office, and quite obviously have much to learn,” she said in clipped tones. “You will not be aware that these are petitions meant for the King, and that they have been sent to me, his queen, by right, in the hope that I can persuade him to grant them.”
Becket’s response was infuriating. He merely smiled and held out his hand. “On the contrary, Madame the Queen, I think you will find that the King wishes me to deal with them. If you would like to ask him, I’m sure he will confirm that.”
She was speechless. Never had she been so slighted, not even by those dismissive old clerics at Louis’s court.
“Leave them here,” she said, her voice steely. “I command it. I will indeed speak with the King. Now you have my leave to go.”
Had she imagined it, or had Becket actually shrugged before he withdrew, bowing and giving that maddening, contemptuous smile? He would not get away with his insolence, she vowed, as she hastened in rage to seek out her husband.
She found Henry soaking in his bath, humming to himself as he was washed by his valets. As she burst into the chamber, almost breathing fire, he waved the men away, frowning.
“Sweet Eleanor, what is wrong?” he cried as he rose and reached for a towel to cover his nakedness. But she wasn’t interested in his body at that moment.
“It’s your Lord Chancellor, that insolent man Becket!” she seethed. “He has dared to demand that I turn over my petitions to him. He says that you wish it!”
Henry’s face flushed, and not with the steam from the tub. There was an awful silence. Eleanor stared at him, horrified.
“It’s true,” she accused him, unable quite to believe it. “You do wish it.”
Henry found his voice. Tying the towel around his waist, he came to her and put his arms around her. His skin was damp and he smelled sharply of the fresh herbs that had scented his bathwater.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Thomas suggested that he might be of help with the petitions, and I thought it a good idea, especially since you have the children now, a royal household to run, and many other duties.”
“A queen’s role is not all domestic!” Eleanor flared. “It is my royal privilege to exercise patronage and use my influence, and you know how much I value that.”
“It is of no matter,” Henry hastened to reassure her. “I will thank Thomas for his thoughtfulness, and tell him that you will continue to deal with the petitions as before.” He bent and kissed her, clasping her face in his hands. “There—does that pacify you, my beautiful termagant?”
It was easy to say that it did and so end the quarrel, but Eleanor had come away with the feeling that Henry had been a fool in allowing Becket his head in this matter, and the even greater conviction that she was now—willingly or not—engaged in a power struggle with the chancellor, who was clearly out to subvert her influence, supplant her in the King’s counsels, and have her relegated to the domestic sphere, where he obviously thought women belonged. And the awful truth was that Henry could not see it! He thought Becket was merely being kind. She could have howled with frustration.
But she had won the first round in the contest, and at least she knew her enemy, whose smile was rather more forced when they next came face-to-face; and she was resolved to fight him with all the subtle weapons at her disposal. She’d known it would be a secret struggle, no doubt of it, because Henry did not understand subtlety, and she would be fighting Becket on his own terms. It had not been long, however, before she realized, to her dismay, that she was losing the battle.
Becket was clever. He was unfailingly faultless in his manner toward Eleanor and took care never to scant the respect due to her as his queen. She was always invited with the King to his house in London, a splendid establishment provided and maintained by Henry, and as palatial as any of the royal residences. In fact, the first time she saw it, she felt indignant that this upstart chancellor should be living in even more regal state than his master. But she had sat there with a smile fixed on her face, dining off gold plate laden with the finest fare, drinking from crystal glasses encrusted with gems that glittered in the flickering light from the great silver candelabra, and served by the sons of nobles, who had been sent to Becket’s household to be schooled in courtesy, martial arts, and those things that befit fledgling aristocrats. She had graced the table, holding her own in the lively and witty conversation that flowed around it, yet aware that her opinions counted for very little with her host, whose courtesies belied his shut-off look whenever she ventured to hold forth.