The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [132]
When we were alone I said to my son: “You are not old enough to take up arguments with your father.”
“The Archbishop is right,” he said stubbornly.
“The King is the head of the country,” I reminded him. “Kings make rules. All your father wants is to try those who commit crimes, whoever they are.”
“But it is against the law of the Church, and the Archbishop has sworn allegiance to the Church.”
“That is a quarrel which has gone on through the ages. Church against State. It is something with which you will have to deal when you are King.”
“I hope that when I am I shall have men like Thomas about me.”
“They can be very uncomfortable at times, as you have seen.”
“But he is right . . . right.”
“Do not let your father hear you say that again. Remember that we have to support the crown. Your father is the King. You will be the King. If it is to be a battle between Church and State, it must be the State for you.”
“I do not see why they cannot work together. All this swearing about small matters is not necessary.”
“You will understand one day. A king must be strong. Your father is that.”
He was silent but his eyes narrowed and his mouth was hard.
I kissed him. “Come. Forget the matter.”
He would not. Later I remembered that occasion, and it occurred to me that it was a beginning.
Everyone was waiting now for what would happen next. There was one thing which was certain. The matter would not be allowed to rest. The King and the Archbishop were at war with each other, and the King could not afford to have an enemy in a high place. It rankled all the more because he had put him there.
When it came to Henry’s ears that Louis had written encouraging letters to the Archbishop congratulating him on the firm stand he was taking on behalf of the Church and in the name of God, he was furious; he raged and shouted abuse of Louis, that lily-livered half-man. Louis hinted that, should life in England become intolerable for Thomas, there would be a welcome for him across the water.
To make matters worse, a tragedy struck the family, and this again Henry laid at Thomas’s door.
There was news from Matilda. Her letter betrayed her violent grief. Her young son William was dead.
Henry could not believe it. When last he had heard of William, his brother had been perfectly well—sad, of course, because he had been in love with the Countess and on account of consanguinity he had been denied—by that meddling priest Thomas of Canterbury—permission to marry her.
Matilda wrote: “Dear William, he was always so gentle, so different from you and Geoffrey. He only wanted to live in peace and amity with the whole world. He never sought anything for himself. He only wanted love and he could have had it—but your Archbishop prevented the marriage. He never recovered from that disappointment. He was listless. When he came to me I was shocked by the sight of him. I nursed him myself but it was no good. He did not care to live. He caught a cold. There are so many drafts in the castle. I think he could have recovered, but he just did not want to live without the Countess. You should never have appointed that man as Archbishop. Now he has killed William.”
The letter dropped from Henry’s hand. I picked it up and read it.
Henry’s face was crumpled in sorrow. He had really loved William. Then suddenly his grief turned to rage.
“It is Thomas Becket . . . always Thomas. He plagues me. He brings trouble into my life.”
“It would seem so,” I agreed.
Henry sank onto a stool and covered his face with his hands. Then he lifted his eyes to my face, and I saw the burning hatred there.
“This,” he said, “I will never forgive.”
Tension was increasing all through that summer. I knew that sooner or later it would have to come to a head. Henry’s mind was completely obsessed by Becket. I knew he would not rest while Thomas was in the country. He wanted to dismiss him, but he could not dismiss the Archbishop of Canterbury. All he could do was hope to