The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [119]
Sometimes I looked at him, with his bow-legs, his rough skin, his earthiness, and I marveled that I could ever have been as obsessed by him as I was in the early days of our marriage. Added to all this was his blatant infidelity. I had accepted that because it meant nothing to him; and for all that he must have been aware of my waning affection there persisted a certain bond between us. We admired each other in certain ways. I had to admit that he was a great ruler; any decision he made had reason behind it. I had never known him make one which did not have what he believed to be some advantage to himself. Sometimes he was wrong, as in the case of appointing Thomas Becket to the Archbishopric of Canterbury, thinking to have a Chancellor-Archbishop whom he could control. It was a mistake but it had had logical reasoning behind it. He had miscalculated his man though—which was odd when one considered all the time he had spent with Becket.
He reminded me that he had been four years in France. I had been here a considerable time too, but not quite as long as that.
“Four years away from my kingdom,” he said.
“We are singularly blessed in Leicester and de Luci.”
“Yes. But it is time I went back.”
I agreed with him. I wondered whether the appointment of Thomas had anything to do with his wish to return. I think I had begun to question my relationship with him when I first knew of Thomas. In those days they had been almost like lovers. Henry’s eyes shone when he looked on the man; he began to be amused in anticipation before Becket spoke. There was some indefinable attraction Becket had for him. Thomas had never been diffident. There was nothing of the sycophant about him; indeed he had been openly critical of Henry, who had taken from him what would have enraged him from another. Perhaps I had been a little jealous in those days when Henry had meant a great deal to me.
And now, did he want to go back to England because Thomas was there? True, it was time he returned. England was the most important of his possessions. He must not neglect it.
His avaricious acquisitiveness put a great strain on him. He could never resist seizing any possession which came his way; he seemed to forget they had to be protected.
So now we were to return to England and he planned to spend Christmas at Oxford.
We traveled down to the coast. The sea was at its most treacherous, the winds violent. It would be folly to put to sea in such weather. We waited and time passed. We should certainly not be in England for Christmas.
Instead we spent it at Cherbourg without a great deal of celebration because we were unprepared; and each day we waited for the wind to abate. I was longing to see my son Henry and wondering how he was faring in Becket’s household. It was about eight months since I had seen him and, as before that we had been constantly together, I missed him very much. I planned to see him as soon as I returned to England.
As the weather did not improve and we remained at Cherbourg, Henry grew very impatient.
“I doubt not,” I said, “that the first person you will wish to see when we get to England will be your recalcitrant Archbishop.”
“I shall need to see all those who hold posts of importance,” he replied.
“I hope you will be equally eager to see your son.”
“Oh, he is in good hands . . . the best possible.”
“In the hands of the man who refused the office of Chancellor which you wished him to keep?”
“Becket has a mind of his own.”
“It would be better if that mind was in accordance with that of his King.”
“You have never liked the fellow. I can’t think why. I should have thought he would have been your sort . . . cultured . . . pretty clothes . . . nice clean hands. I think, my dear, you are a little jealous of my affection for him.”
“It was rather excessive.” He laughed aloud.
“Perhaps it has diminished a