The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [116]
“And what,” I said, “if Becket becomes the Archbishop of Canterbury?”
“I seen no harm in the future King’s being brought up in the household of an Archbishop, do you?”
“None whatsoever,” I replied.
“There is something else. I want to make sure that there is no strife after my death. I want Henry crowned King of England.”
“What . . . now!”
He nodded. “I lead a somewhat hazardous life. Here one day, but who knows where I shall be the next. What if I were to die tomorrow?”
“God forbid!”
“Thank you for your heartfelt expression of love for me.”
“Why do you talk of death in this way?”
“Because it is all around us. I want to make the throne safe for the boy.”
“But he is the natural heir.”
“There would be some, I daresay, to cast doubt on that. I want to be sure that, when I die, there is a king on the throne. I want Henry crowned . . . soon.”
“But what of you?”
“There will be two Kings.”
“Two Kings! Who ever heard of such! And one a boy of six.”
“He shall be King before I die. He won’t know it, of course. It will make no difference, but he will be crowned, and if I died tomorrow, he is the King of England. The English would be very loath to turn from the throne one who has been anointed as their King.”
“I wonder at the wisdom of it.”
“I am sure of the wisdom of it.”
“Would the lords agree?”
“They might have to be persuaded.”
“I expect you could do that.”
“With Becket’s help.”
“You have discussed this with Becket?”
“Not yet. Of course if he were Archbishop of Canterbury he would crown the boy.”
This man amazed me. I felt I should never know him.
We traveled to Rouen to see Matilda, who received us with great joy. She had changed even in the time since I had last seen her. I wondered if I should alter like that when my life was nearing its end. She was no longer the stormy creature of her earlier years. I believe her rages had been as violent as Henry’s, only more dignified. I could not imagine her lying on the floor biting the rushes. Now she was a lady of good works. The people of Normandy had always respected her; it was those of England who would not have her. She had completed a Cistercian house near Lillebonne, was very proud of it and pleased that she had lived long enough to see its completion for, she told me, when she had been in Oxford, just before she had sped across the ice, she had made a vow to God that, if he would allow her to escape, she would build such a place.
Now she felt at peace.
Henry talked to her as he always had. He really did regard her as one of his generals. He always remembered that he could rely on her loyalty as on few others’, and in addition to that he respected her judgment.
He talked about the vacant See of Canterbury.
“Theobald was a good man,” she said. “It is always a sadness to lose such as he was. He was never a friend of mine. He was always Stephen’s man, but he was unswerving in his devotion, and being a man of some wisdom he must have known that Stephen was not good for the country. Then on Stephen’s death he turned to you with great relief. But he would never have helped you while Stephen lived. That is the sort of man you want around you. As I grow older, I regard loyalty as the greatest gift.”
“We have to fill the vacancy,” Henry said.
“Which you must do with the utmost care. An Archbishop of Canterbury can have too much power for a monarch’s comfort.”
“That is what I think,” said Henry. “It is why I am considering putting Becket in it.”
Matilda put her hand to her throat and turned pale.
“Becket!” she cried. “Oh no, you must not do that.”
“Why?” cried Henry. “He is the very man. He will work with me . . . not against me . . . as so many churchmen would do. I want no one taking his orders from Rome.”
“I feel it would be wrong to appoint Becket,” she said quietly.
“You do not know him as I do.”
“He is not so much a man of the Church as a diplomat.”
“Why should not the two go together?”
“It would be wrong.