The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [153]
And . . . I was far away from Henry.
Richard and I were as close as two people could be for there was deep understanding between us. I was fond of Marguerite too, and she of me. I loved Geoffrey. I tried to bind my children to me, for I loved them dearly and, of course, I took a special delight in their love for me for I felt that, in giving it to me in such measure, they deprived Henry of it.
And into this happy and peaceful atmosphere came the news of Becket’s death. We were all stunned. Four knights had murdered him in the cathedral. The King’s knights. That was significant.
“What will it mean?” asked Richard.
“For that we must wait and see,” I answered.
“Do you think the King ordered them to kill him?”
I was silent, wondering. I knew that whatever the case Henry was going to be branded the murderer of Thomas Becket.
I could not sleep. I kept seeing Becket’s cold, ascetic face, that expression of calm righteousness, the martyr’s crown almost about his head even then. I saw Henry too, his face scarlet with rage, contorted with grief. He had loved the man. There was no doubt of that. The love had turned to hate but it was never entirely hate . . . for love was always there.
How did Henry feel now?
We soon heard. People could talk of nothing but the murder in the cathedral. How dramatic that it should have been in such a place! It would add to Thomas’s martyrdom. It would make him more holy than if he had been struck down in the street.
Henry had, of course, been stricken with horror. Thomas dead! No longer able to plague him, to arouse that hatred which was as strong as love had once been.
How had he received the news? He had taken off his royal robes and wrapped himself in sackcloth. He had wept openly and commanded to be left alone. He had returned to his chamber, and there he had stayed for three days, refusing food; nor would he see anyone. None could comfort him; there was no comfort for him. The days wore on and, although he emerged from his chamber, he would lapse into silence and then suddenly cry out: “The pity of it! What a disaster! This is a terrible thing to have happened.”
It was indeed—for Becket . . . and for him.
The whole world was against him. They said he had murdered a saint, for even those who had been against Becket in his lifetime had now elevated him to sainthood.
I almost wished I could have been there. I should have liked to talk to Henry. I was sure he must be thinking of what effect this was going to have on the future.
Louis held up his hands in horror. I was sure he believed that God would strike his old enemy in some terrible manner. The Pope threatened all the Angevin dominions with interdiction and to excommunicate Henry unless he did penance for the murder.
Henry seemed to accept the charge, and the four knights were not taken to task in any way for what they had done. Henry believed in justice; he had asked why no one would rid him of the turbulent priest and those men had taken that as an order to kill the Archbishop. They had thought it their duty in the service of the King. He could not blame them. He accepted what had happened as his fault. He, who had loved Thomas as he had loved no one else, was his murderer.
The boys talked about it a great deal. Their attitude was changing rapidly toward their father. They had never loved him but they had been in awe of him. They had regarded him as the all-powerful monarch, and power earns respect, especially from the ambitious, and all my boys were that.
“The King of France is angry with him . . . so is the Pope,” said Richard. “Will they rise against him?”
I said: “We shall have to wait and see what happens.”
“If they defeated him,” went on Richard, “I should still have Aquitaine and Geoffrey Brittany. Nobody could take Aquitaine from me.”
“Nor Brittany from me,” added Geoffrey.
“If our father were driven out of England, he might try to. I wouldn’t let