The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [102]
“You can put your trust in us—can he not?” said Matilda to me.
I agreed that he could.
I was sad that he was going away so soon, but I was reconciled that this would be our way of life. And at least he did me the honor of respecting me to such an extent that he could leave me in charge.
He and Matilda departed. The matter was urgent and once he had decided on a course of action, Henry could never delay.
I was very busy. I had conferences with the Earl of Leicester and Richard of Luci. I liked them both and we understood each other well.
Then one night the nurses came to me in great distress. Little William was fighting hard for his breath, and they feared that he was very ill indeed.
We had had many alarms with William and I was constantly anxious about him. I called in the doctors but, alas, there was nothing they could do. My little William, the boy of whom I had been so proud, passed away while Henry was in Anjou fighting his brother.
I was very sad. I had loved the girls I had had from Louis, but Henry’s boys were especially dear to me.
It was while I was mourning for William that I found I was once more pregnant.
Henry returned from Anjou. He was triumphant. Naturally Geoffrey’s pathetic little revolt had been put down. He did have a certain conscience though, for it was true that his father had said that, when Henry came to the throne of England, Anjou should go to Geoffrey.
Henry explained it to me. “To give it to him would be to throw it away. If my father had really known what he was like, he would never have agreed to that.”
“But he had done so.”
Henry went on: “I have told him he cannot have Anjou . . . or Normandy. I must make sure that they are safe. I have compromised with him and I think he is satisfied. An income for life . . . a handsome income . . . on condition he leaves Anjou to me.”
“That should suffice,” I said.
“My mother will look after Normandy, and if there is any trouble and I have to leave England, you will look after this country for me.”
“We are a close triumvirate,” I replied.
“That is so, my love. You and my mother are my two most trusted generals, as I have told you.”
He was delighted that I was once more with child.
His friendship with Thomas Becket was growing in a manner which surprised not only me. The two were becoming inseparable. They hunted together, hawked together, rode, walked and talked. Like others I could not understand this attraction. They were so unlike each other. Becket was meticulous in his dress; he always wore the finest clothes. He had a love of luxurious living which ill accorded with his calling but which I have often found a characteristic of those who come to gracious living rather than were born to it. True, at Pevensey Castle, where he had spent many years with Sir Richer de l’Aigle, he had developed a fondness for easy living which stayed with him. There was a natural elegance about him; I could understand Henry’s regard for him; but this intense friendship was strange indeed.
Becket was a man of the world, churchman though he might be. That he was unusually clever, I had no doubt. He gave the impression of one who had no regard for ambition. He made no concessions to royalty whatsoever; he treated the King as his equal and had no hesitation in disagreeing with him if he thought fit. It might have been that which Henry found so refreshing. There was no doubt that the man had an unusual charisma.
Henry set him to organize the refurbishment of the palace in the Tower of London, a task which Becket performed with great competence—and extravagance.
Henry was amused and chided Becket about the cost, asking him how he, as a churchman, could spend so much on luxuries for the King when the money might have been spent in helping the poor.
“And what do you think his answer was?” said Henry to me. “‘Better to have a well-housed King than leave him so uncomfortable that his temper frays from time to time.’”
Henry slapped his thigh, indicating how the remark had amused