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By Root 1705 0

of his unusual beauty but because my relationship with Henry had undergone a change. There had been times before he brought young Geoffrey into the nursery when he had irritated me, but he had never failed to charm me. I had seen those violent rages which had appalled me and I had realized that some of them were performed for effect, because he liked people to be in awe of him, simply because he wanted to be able to do with them what he wished. But still he had remained the man I loved. Now I looked at him through clearer eyes. Why should I, a fastidious woman, have become so besotted about a man who did not care for his appearance, dressed in a slovenly manner, ate his food walking about—not caring how it was served, had no great good looks, was bow-legged and weatherbeaten with rough red hands? He had power, yes, great power, but he was devious, crafty and unscrupulous. He had never paid his brother Geoffrey the amount he had contracted to in exchange for Anjou. True, he had read a great deal. He would read while he was in church.

He was a great King; he did know how to rule. But he was greedy. He wanted to take as much land as he could. He chafed that anything should belong to anyone else.

I was growing out of love with Henry, and all my affection had been transferred to my golden-haired child.

Even at an early age Richard responded. His smiles were for me. He was contented only when I was near. There had been a bond between us from the moment he was born. He was a blessing. He soothed those wounded feelings engendered by Henry’s disloyalty. I now faced the truth. He must have bastards all over the country. He would pass through a town taking women as it pleased him and thinking no more of it.

I often wondered about Becket. They were so much together. Was Becket around when Henry was wenching? And if so, did he share in the sport? He seemed to in everything else.

Once I asked Henry this.

“Did you know,” he said, “that Becket has taken a vow of chastity?”

“People do not always keep to their vows,” I pointed out.

“He does. He’s a churchman, remember.”

“A very unusual churchman,” I commented.

I was annoyed that Becket should take up so much of his time and charm him so obviously. Before I had Richard I should have been jealous. Now I could shrug it aside. I said I thought it was rather odd for a chancellor-churchman to be so frequently in the company of a king-rake. That amused Henry.

“I’ll tell Becket that,” he said.

I could imagine how Henry teased Becket, how he would try to lay him open to temptation. Becket, of course, would go his own way. I was sure that one of the holds he had over the King was due to his independent outlook and his indifference as to whether he offended Henry or not.

Accounts of their adventuring were brought to me from time to time. There was one incident which rather amused me and about which there was a good deal of talk.

They made such a contrast when they went riding out together: Henry in his plain Angevin jacket and short cape, his red hands unencumbered by gloves and the Chancellor, elaborately clad in scented linen and a fine embroidered sable-lined cloak.

One day, as King and Chancellor rode together through the streets of London, they came upon an old man shivering in his rags. Henry pointed out the man to Becket and asked if it would not be an act of charity to give him a warm cloak. Becket agreed that it would indeed, at which Henry leaned toward Becket and attempted to take the magnificent fur-lined cloak from his Chancellor’s shoulders. Realizing what was about to happen, Becket tried to save his cloak, and the two of them tugged at it. Their followers thought there had been a disagreement between them and stood back amazed. The King was triumphant. He won the cloak and shouted to the shivering man, who must have looked on with amazement, that the Chancellor wished to make a gift of it to him. Poor old man, I daresay he could not believe his good fortune. But I wondered how Becket felt to lose such a garment, which he must have treasured. I liked to think of Becket