London - Edward Rutherfurd [146]
“Why?” Suddenly she felt very cold.
Henri shrugged. “Because you are my wife,” he replied, as though that answered everything.
Her mind went back to the evening of the fire. She frowned. “The night of the fire. Somebody grabbed me . . .”
“Of course.” He smiled. “I guessed you were running to Barnikel. It was too risky. You could have been arrested.” He paused. “Besides, it worked out perfectly. You couldn’t have set things up better.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It wasn’t a good idea for Ralph to get married.”
“Ralph? He died at St Paul’s.”
“I don’t think so. I think he encountered your friend Barnikel at the Tower.” Henri smiled. “My father often said that when I played chess, my strategy was indifferent but my tactics were good. He was right.” He paused. “You see, my dear wife, it was you who gave me the chance. When you were obviously about to warn Barnikel, it occurred to me, after my men stopped you, to send your message to warn Barnikel after all. So one of my men went. He said he came from you and told him to kill Ralph when he reached the Tower. Since Ralph disappeared, I feel sure he did.” The master tactician gently sighed. “Either Ralph would arrest your lover or your lover would kill Ralph. Either way, a neat move.”
“You killed Ralph.”
“No. I assume Barnikel did that.”
“You are the devil.”
“Perhaps. But please consider that if Ralph had married and had heirs, your own children’s inheritance would have been cut in half.”
“You should be arrested.”
“I committed no crime. Which is more, my dear, than I can say for you.”
She got up. She felt ill. She had to get out of that accursed hall.
Minutes later, she was walking down the hill to Ludgate, then out, across the Fleet, and past St Bride’s. She let the soft breeze from the river below brush her hair. She did not stop until she reached the old jetty at the Aldwych.
And as she sat on the ground and stared along the river, first round the curve to Westminster, and then along the stately stretch to the placid Tower, she thought of her rich children, and the passing of the years, and realized to her astonishment that she was not even angry any more.
That, she now saw, was for her personally the meaning of the Norman Conquest.
It would have surprised her, some minutes after she had gone, to see her husband.
He was still sitting at his chessboard, but having concluded his game, he had taken out a piece of parchment, which he was now studying carefully. It was the message his father had received just before he died. As he read it once again, Henri’s face was calm, but his lips had twisted into a faint half-smile.
The message announced that the Becket family of the Norman city of Caen were planning to move to London.
THE SAINT
1170
A June morning in the Palace of Westminster. In the long chamber beside the king’s great hall, all was quiet and orderly.
By the door a few courtiers murmured in hushed tones; in the centre, quill pens scratching softly upon parchment, ink supplied by the monks of Westminster Abbey, seven scribes were busy at their writing desks. From the far end, at the table where some of the most powerful men in England were sitting, came a curious clicking sound. They were moving the chequers.
How grave they looked. How awesome. The treasurer, the justiciar, the Bishop of Winchester, Master Thomas Brown and their clerks. Noblemen and sheriffs trembled before them.
Halfway down the chamber, with his back to the wall, stood a quiet young man with a very long nose. The men at the table knew him well. A promising clerk. But, why, on this warm June day, should his face be as white as a ghost’s?
His name was Pentecost Silversleeves.
They knew. They were looking at him. They all knew about the night before.
The Palace of Westminster. In the century since the Conquest, the small island of Thorney, now a kind of royal platform beside the Thames, had become magnificent. It was entirely surrounded by a wall. Several bridges crossed the Tyburn stream that flowed around it. The great Abbey of Edward the