Becket had sworn, and his clergy with him. But he went about the palace with lowered face and bitter eyes. One day, entering the chapel ahead of her ladies, Eleanor was horrified to see a man, naked to the waist, kneeling on the chancel steps. His exposed back was crisscrossed with bloody lacerations, and as she watched, unable to tear her eyes away from this grisly vision, she saw the barbed discipline flung again and again over his shoulder, flagellating and tearing his white skin. At her gasp, he flung the whip down on the tiles, his head jerking round. It was Becket, his face a mask of grief. She stared at him for a long moment, then hastened away, shooing her tardy women before her so that they should not intrude on the Archbishop’s private hell.
Word soon got around that Becket regretted what he had done and was punishing himself with heavy penances. He even tried to flee the kingdom, but was halted by the King’s officers on the very seashore.
“We can’t have the Primate of England sulking in France,” Henry sneered, his face dark with anger. “How would that look?”
“I would let him go,” said Bishop Foliot, his bushy brows creased in a frown. “The Pope could not approve of him deserting his flock, and I have little doubt he would agree to your replacing Becket with someone more amenable.”
“I could not agree with you more, my Lord Bishop,” Eleanor put in. “We have heard enough of this priest!”
“You speak truth, Foliot. Thomas must go,” Henry agreed. Eleanor looked at him in surprise.
“All your bishops will support you,” Foliot assured him. “He is too unstable for high office in the Church. He is bringing it into disrepute!”
“He has gone out of his way to undermine my new laws,” Henry fumed. “Well, I will use them to get rid of him. I have decided to have him arraigned for the misuse of moneys entrusted to him as chancellor. Let’s see if that doesn’t shift him!”
“Was there a misuse of moneys?” Foliot asked.
“No, but it will serve our purpose!” Henry said grimly.
Eleanor was watching him. He was a man on a quest, driven by a zealous desire for revenge. Only a man who had loved so deeply could hate this much, and yet … She was sure that he was still hurting, deep inside, and that no cure, be it revenge or reconciliation, would ever heal the gaping wound of Becket’s betrayal.
Northampton, 1164
“As Archbishop of Canterbury, I am not subject to the jurisdiction of the King!” Becket’s normally impassive face was flushed with fury.
Henry leaned forward on his throne.
“Thomas, you have not been charged as an archbishop, but as my former chancellor,” he explained, pleasantly enough. “Now, if you would be so good as to account to me and this court for the disposition of the moneys that passed through your hands back then, we can clear this matter up.”
Becket looked at him in hatred.
“I think you are out to ruin me, sire!” he breathed.
“I?” inquired Henry. “I thought the spur was on the other foot.”
Becket pursed his lips, then turned to the clergy, seated by order of rank on the benches behind him. “My Lords Spiritual,” he cried, “I beseech you, advise and help me! I ask for your support.” There was an embarrassed shuffling, as the ecclesiastics shifted position, looked down at their feet, and generally tried to avoid meeting his pleading eyes. Only Bishop Foliot fixed his gimlet gaze directly on the Archbishop.
“By your folly, you have brought yourself to this!” he accused Becket. “But if you will submit to the King, as he lawfully requires, then you will have our perfect allegiance.”
Becket looked profoundly shocked.
“Lord King,” he said, turning back to Henry, who was glaring at him implacably, “might I have time to consider my position and prepare an answer for you?”
“Of course,” Henry replied. “I am not a monster. I’m a reasonable man. But don’t even think of leaving the kingdom! Have I your word on that?”
“Yes, sire,” Becket replied, meekly enough. “You have my word.”
Eleanor was kneeling in the chapel. The candles on the altar illuminated in warm tones the painted statue of the Virgin and Child, and it seemed that Mary was smiling sadly in poignant reproach.
On the prie-dieubefore the Queen lay the letter she had received that day, a formal missive from Louis, informing her of the marriages of their daughters, Marie to the Count of Champagne, and Alix to his brother, the Count of Blois. Her first thought had been that it was hard to believe that her little girls were now young women of nineteen and fourteen, and married to boot!
She rarely thought of them these days, and could barely remember their faces now, although of course they would have changed much in the years since she had seen them—and yet she was astonished to find that she was deeply upset at not having been invited to their weddings. The reason, she knew, was not far to seek: Louis thought her a bad, uncaring mother who had abandoned her little girls without a thought, to marry her lover. Well, she would prove him wrong. She would write to her daughters and express her joy in their marriages and her warm wishes for their future. There must be an end to this silence. She owed them some share of the kind of deep and abiding love she felt for her other children, the children she had been allowed to nurture from birth. She would write today. Even if there was no reply, she would have salved her conscience.
Eleanor was in her customary place of honor beside Henry when Becket was again summoned to court. She heard his sharp intake of breath when the Archbishop made a dramatic entrance, clothed in his rich vestments and carrying his episcopal cross, which was normally borne before him by one of his monks.
“Why is he doing that?” she whispered, shocked at Becket’s aggressive stance, when he should have been suing for Henry’s favor.
“I think he is claiming the Church’s protection against my ill will,” Henry muttered dourly. Bishop Foliot, seated within earshot at the end of the nearest bench, looked up and said, quite audibly, “He was always a fool, and always will be!” Becket glared at him.
“Well, Thomas, what have you got to say for yourself?” Henry asked, his gray eyes bearing down on his former friend.
“Lord King, I am come to remind you that you yourself have long since released me from all my liabilities as chancellor,” Becket told him with a defiant stare.
“God’s blood, man! Are you to deny my justice at every turn?” Henry blustered.
“I think, sire, that there is less in this of justice than malice,” Becket retorted, and as Henry roared oaths at him, he swooped down on his bishops. “I forbid you to sit in judgment of me!” he shouted at them.
Henry leaped to his feet. Eleanor found herself gripping the arms of her throne; she could have killed Becket with her bare hands. How dare he provoke Henry in this way? Henry, who had done so much for him, and loved him too well.
Henry stepped off the dais and bounded forward until he was standing toe-to-toe with Becket.
“You have gone too far this time, Thomas!” he snarled. “Now, my lords and bishops, you see his venom plainly. He defies not only his king, but the Pope himself. Now, listen. You will all write to His Holiness and inform him that this priest has breached his sworn oath to uphold the laws of England, and you will request that he be deposed from his office.”
There was a stunned silence as Becket gathered his wits.