The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [98]
With Petronilla’s help I devised some entertainment for Christmas. I would send for some of my minstrels but of course there was no time for that now. I thought of the pleasure it would give me to see Bernard de Ventadour again. I would create a Court under these gloomy skies which would equal that of my beloved Aquitaine.
But now the time was short. We planned feverishly. We must not disappoint Henry. Nor did we. It might well be that he would not have wanted anything bearing a resemblance to the Courts of Love, but later I should make my own Court to suit myself.
One memory which stands out very clearly from those Christmas revels is that of Thomas Becket, because I first saw him there.
I did not see any great significance in the meeting then; it was only afterward that it became of such importance. But I could not fail to notice him. There was something distinguished about him, and that was obvious in the first moments of meeting him. He had great presence. He was very tall and good-looking, with a somewhat hooked nose which gave him a patrician look, and one of the most compelling pairs of dark eyes I have ever seen. He must have been about fifteen or sixteen years older than Henry.
I had rarely seen Henry take to anyone as quickly as he did to Thomas Becket. He had charmed Archbishop Theobald equally, it seemed, for he had spent several years in the Archbishop’s household and had been favored by him, which of course had aided him in his career.
Henry brought him to me and, almost before the usual pleasantries had been exchanged, he would have him tell me of the romantic love affair of his parents.
“It will please the Queen,” he told Becket. “Doubtless she will make a song of it, or get one of her minstrels to. She has a great liking for poets, and she is one herself.”
Becket and I took each other’s measure steadily, and I knew in that moment that there was some special quality about this man; I was not sure whether I should be wary of it.
“I am honored,” said Becket, “that my gracious Queen should wish to hear the story of my humble beginnings.”
Henry gave the man an affectionate push. I wondered why it was that they had become on such familiar terms so soon; he could not have known the man long. We had arrived in England only a few weeks before. Henry, of course, was open in his dealings with people. If he liked them, he did not disguise the fact; nor did he if it were otherwise. He had no time for subtlety.
Becket was learned and well read. So was Henry. I had gathered that. They made allusions to classics with which they were familiar and which the others might not understand. The difference in their ages was great, but Henry was mature beyond his years; he was not the sort of man who would suffer those about him who bored him.
He urged Becket to tell me the story. It was certainly strange. It went something like this:
His father, Gilbert, had been a native of Rouen, but after the Norman invasion of England, like so many, he decided to seek his fortune there. When he was a boy, in his little village of Thierceville, in Normandy, Gilbert had played with Theobald, who was determined to go into the Church. Theobald was a very ambitious man; he followed the Conqueror to England and in due course became Archbishop of Canterbury. Like many men of his generation, Gilbert decided to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and, taking with him one servant, he set out. He reached Jerusalem without any great mishap but on his way home the party with which he was traveling was captured by the Saracens.
Becket continued: “To my father’s horror, he heard that he was