The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [117]
“I tell you, you do not know Becket.”
“I know it would not work.”
“But why . . . why? Give me one reason why it would be wrong.”
I reached out and touched her hand. She took mine and held it fast. “I spend a great deal of time in prayer and meditation now, Henry,” she said. “I can only say that something tells me it would be wrong. If you do this you will regret it. It will bring you great sorrow.”
“To have my best friend in such a post!”
“He cannot be Chancellor and Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“Why not? Tell me why not.”
“He cannot,” she said.
“My dear lady Empress, you are not acting with your usual good sense. Tell me what you have against Becket.”
“Nothing—except that he must not be your Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“Why? Why? Why?”
“I know it. There will be pain and suffering . . . violence. It must not be. I know these things.”
Henry said: “I have made up my mind.”
“Becket has not agreed yet,” I reminded him.
“Becket will do as he is told.”
I could see that opposition was strengthening Henry’s resolve. Usually he listened to his mother but in this matter I feared his mind was made up.
When I was alone with her, Matilda said to me: “Try to persuade him. It is wrong. I am convinced of it.”
“You know Henry. Can anyone ask him to change his mind once he has made it up?”
“Oh, he is obstinate . . . obstinate. I trust this will not come to pass.”
“If you know something . . . if you could give him some good reason, he would listen to you.”
She touched her heart. “It is just a feeling I have here.”
And that was all she would say.
We took our farewells of her. Henry was as affectionate as ever toward her but he did not mention Becket to her again.
I said to him: “She is very insistent. It was almost as though she had some spiritual knowledge.”
“She has become very religious. I would never have believed it of her. She thinks Thomas a dandy, an ambitious man—and of course that is not her idea of what a man of the Church should be.”
“She did not say that . . . just that she had a strong conviction.”
“She is growing old, alas. She was a great woman when she was younger.”
I said: “I think she is a great woman now. Have you discussed this matter of Becket with your ministers?”
“The decision is mine.”
“Why not wait until you get back to England and take it up with Leicester and de Luci?”
“I don’t need to. My mind is made up.”
“And you think Becket will accept?”
“I think he must when he knows it is my will.”
I knew then that Becket would become our next Archbishop of Canterbury.
Becket’s reaction to the suggestion was one of dismay. Henry told me of his reluctance.
“He declares that it will be the end of our friendship.”
“Why so?”
“Because the Church has always been at variance with the State.”
“Did you not tell him that your reason for appointing him was that your being such great friends—one head of the State, end head of the Church—you could put an end to such variance?”
“I told him that, yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“That if the variance was there, our friendship would not change it.”
“I must admit it is a strange appointment for such an ambitious man.”
“All archbishops are ambitious. Otherwise they would be parish priests all their lives.”
“But a man who is known for his sumptuous hospitality, who lives like a prince, who spends most of his time hunting and hawking with his dear friend, the King . . . he is not the man for the Church. A strange choice indeed for such a post.”
“I want it,” said Henry. “He will work for me. My Chancellor and my Archbishop. It is an excellent arrangement.”
“You hope to manipulate Becket.”
“He might attempt to manipulate me.”
“He will not succeed. No one would succeed in doing that.”
“Ah, you have confidence in me then?”
“Confidence in your determination to have your own way and brush aside all who attempt to stop you.”
“Then I will have my way in the Church.”
“And has he accepted?”
“He was persuaded at length by those prelates who were present. They knew my will and they wanted to please me. Thomas said he was uneasy and he told me privately that