Sharon Penman - Time and Chance

“You have beautiful hair,” she said. “Did you ever wish that it was a fashionable flaxen shade?”

“No,” Eleanor said, and then, “I’ve had to start dyeing it.”

“To hide the grey? Me, too.”

“I thought I was… pregnant, I mean. I’ve not had a flux since December. But Bertrade says no, that I’ve reached that time in life when a woman’s menses cease. She says it usually happens by age fifty.” Eleanor’s shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “I’m forty-eight.”

Maud kept silent, continuing to brush Eleanor’s hair.

“It makes no sense. I was horrified to think I was pregnant again, Maud. I’ve been drinking wine mixed with the juice of willow leaves so I’d not conceive. I should be so relieved…”

“I understand,” Maud said softly. “Any woman would.”

“But no man.” Eleanor rose suddenly, moved to the table, and poured wine into two gilded cups. Handing one to Maud, she said, “I took your advice, after all.”

“Which advice was that?”

“A long time ago, it was, more than eleven years. I was wroth with Harry for failing to win Toulouse, and Petra was adding fuel to the fire. You told me-not in so many words-that I was being foolish and shortsighted. It took a while, but I came to see that you were right.”

Maud glanced quickly toward Eleanor, their eyes catching and holding. She remembered. She had warned Eleanor that she must either accept Harry as he is or learn to love him less.

Pope Alexander was so appalled by the news of Thomas Becket’s murder that he refused to meet with Englishmen for more than a week. But Henry’s envoys were still able to persuade him not to issue a sentence of excommunication, taking oaths that the English king would abide by any papal judgment. The Pope contented himself with pronouncing a general sentence of excommunication against the murderers of the archbishop and all who had given them counsel, countenance, aid. Nor did he lay England under interdict, although he subsequently confirmed the interdict laid by the Archbishop of Sens upon Henry’s continental domains. He also confirmed the sentences of excommunication and suspension imposed by Thomas Becket upon the Bishops of London and Salisbury and the Archbishop of York, prohibited Henry from entering any church for the time being, and announced that he would be sending papal legates to Normandy to meet with the English king and judge whether he was “truly humbled.”

Gerald de Barri always felt his heart swell upon his first sight of St David’s. Hidden away in a secluded hollow by the River Alun, the cathedral burst into view like a flower in sudden bloom, resplendent even in a chilly Welsh downpour. The original church had been built in the sixth century by the patron saint of Wales. The present cathedral was a lodestone for the faithful, attracting pilgrims from the far-flung corners of Christendom. For Gerald, it was much more; his uncle was the Bishop of St David’s.

Urging his mount forward, Gerald vowed to make sure the poor beast got a rubdown and a bran mash, rich fare for a hired horse. He knew, though, that he’d pushed the animal mercilessly. The ride from Pembroke was less than twenty miles, but the day was wet, the September weather foul, and he’d set a punishing pace, so eager was he to reach Menevia while the English king was still there.

After finding a trustworthy groom to take care of his horse, he took time for a quick wash-up before seeking his uncle and the king; both vanity and practicality dictated that he not appear before them in muddied disarray. He then plunged out into the rain again, hurrying toward the church. He arrived just as the Mass had ended and slipped inconspicuously in the south door, mingling with the canons and English lords as he awaited his chance.

It came sooner than he expected. The king had halted in the nave, surrounded by his entourage and well-wishers and royal watchers. Murmuring an excuse to his highborn guest, the bishop hastened toward the door. Gerald darted forward to intercept him just as he stepped out onto the porch.

“Uncle David!”

The bishop blinked “Gerald! What are you doing here, lad?” Not waiting for his nephew’s response, he enfolded the young man in an affectionate embrace. “Why did you not write that you were coming home? Ah, but you’ll never guess who is inside the cathedral!”

“I already know! I heard as soon as my ship dropped anchor at The Cross. He’s staying at Pembroke Castle whilst awaiting favorable winds for Ireland. People in the town were talking of nothing else. I had planned to head for Manorbier first, but when I heard the king was at Menevia… well, I thought if we met, he’d be likely to remember me in the future.” Gerald acknowledged his aspirations with a forthright grin; in his family, pride was not one of the Seven Deadly Sins. “Has a king ever visited St David’s ere this? When you heard he was at Pembroke, did you dare hope he’d come here?”

“I hoped he would not,” Bishop David confided softly, and when Gerald stared at him in surprise, he glanced around surreptitiously to be sure they were not overheard. “It is a great honor, of course. But it is also a great burden, for we have not the resources of an English cathedral. We do not have enough in our larders and pantries to feed so many and I am loath to shame us by providing a meager meal for the king. Moreover, the longer he stays, the more dire our straits. A three-day visit could eat up our entire winter supplies.”

Gerald was very fond of his uncle; David was paying for a first-rate education at the University of Paris. But he deplored his kinsman’s shortsighted approach to life. Were he the Bishop of St David’s, he’d gladly have put the canons on starvation rations if that earned him the favor of a king-even a king in disgrace.

“Where does he stand with the Church these days, Uncle? In Paris, rumor had it that the Holy Father was still deliberating his fate. Is there any chance that you are entertaining an excommunicate?”

Bishop David shuddered. “Jesu forfend!” Even though they were alone on the porch, he lowered his voice still further, continuing in a throaty whisper. “I assume you know that the Bishops of Worcester and Evreux and Lisieux were able to persuade the Pope not to issue an excommunication on Maundy Thursday. His Holiness then appointed a commission to investigate the king’s complicity in the murder of the martyred Thomas. But they have reached no conclusions. In fact, I believe they are still en route to Normandy. So at least I need not fear that I have invited Ishmael into God’s House!”

Pope Alexander had also forbidden the English king to enter a church until his guilt or innocence could be determined, but Gerald kindly forbore to remind his uncle of that. For all he knew, the Holy Father had lifted this proscription; he had, after all, absolved the Bishops of London and Salisbury of their excommunication. Gerald was a student of history and he knew that kings were rarely cast out into darkness, for most Popes were astute practitioners of political power. Only outright defiance could guarantee a papal thunderbolt, and the English king was too shrewd to fall into that trap.

“ ‘Ishmael’? Discussing Scriptures, my lord bishop?” This new voice was low-pitched and ironically amused, the voice of a man who never had to raise it to be heard. Gerald guessed the identity of the speaker even before he swung around to face the king of the English.

Bishop David flushed and began to fling words about as if they were lifelines, hoping that one of them might be his rescue, distracting Henry from what he may have overheard. He made the introductions with over-hearty enthusiasm, and as his nephew knelt before the king, he babbled on nervously about Gerald’s accomplishments, the fine career ahead of him in the Church once his studies were done.