Sharon Penman: Time and Chance

His surprise was obvious. “It is not too soon?”

“Maude was born on the second Wednesday after Whitsun, and today is the twenty-third. That makes six weeks by my count.”

“Two days short,” Henry said; he’d always been good at math.

Eleanor lay back against the pillows. “Would you rather wait?”

“I’ve never been one for waiting,” he said and kissed her, softly at first, until her arms went up around his neck. When he spoke again, his voice was husky and he sounded out of breath. “You were wrong about my not trusting anyone. I may be wary of the rest of mankind, but I do trust you, my mother, and Thomas Becket.”

Eleanor’s eyes shone in the firelight, golden and catlike. “Not necessarily in that order,” she murmured, and after that, they had no further need of words, finding in their lovemaking a familiar pleasure and even a small measure of solace.

May 1157

St John’s Abbey

Colchester, England

Adame, wait!” The hospitaller hurried along the cloister walkway, hoping to intercept the queen before she reached her destination: the abbey chapter house. He did not have high expectations of success, but he had to try. A woman-even a highborn one-could not be allowed to wander at will in this hallowed sanctum of holy men. He was taken aback when Eleanor stopped abruptly, then swung around to face him.

“You wish to speak with me, Brother Clement?”

“Indeed, Madame, I… I wanted to show you our herb gardens.”

“That is kind of you, but I’ve already seen them.”

He could think of no other pretext, could only blurt out the truth. “My lady, forgive me for speaking so boldly, but you do not want to enter the chapter house just now. The lord king and our abbot and Archbishop Theobald are discussing a Church matter and… and so lovely a lady would be bound to be a distraction.”

His patronizing attempt at gallantry had Eleanor’s ladies, Barbe and Melisent, avoiding each other’s gaze lest they burst out laughing. No monk in Aquitaine would have dared to presume so, but this English monk clearly knew little of his young king’s consort. Grateful that they were to be present at his epiphany, they smiled at him with malicious mischief that he, in his innocence, took for coquetry.

His sudden blush made him look so young and vulnerable that Eleanor felt a glimmer of pity and chose not to prolong his ordeal. “Your ‘Church matter’ is, in actuality, a trial, Brother Clement. When the Bishop of Chichester sought to exercise jurisdiction over the abbey at Battle, the abbot balked, contending that the abbey was exempted from episcopal authority by royal charter. Eventually this dispute came before my lord husband, the king, and we expect the issue to be resolved today.”

The hospitaller was staring at her, mouth agape, and she wasted no more time in driving the stiletto home. “Now you may escort me to the chapter house,” she said in a tone that he recognized at once, for all that it was sheathed in silk: the voice of authority, absolute and indisputable.

Eleanor’s entrance put a temporary halt to the proceedings. The chamber was studded with stars of the Church: the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Archbishop of York, the Bishops of Chichester, Hereford, and Winchester. Eleanor harbored genuine respect only for the venerable Theobald of Canterbury. York and Chichester she considered to be self-seekers, men whose ambitions were thoroughly secular in nature. She did not know Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of Hereford, well enough to assess, and the aged Bishop of Winchester she utterly mistrusted, for he was the brother of the usurping Stephen, damned both by blood and history.

Henry was seated in a high-backed chair, more formally attired than usual for this was Whitsuntide, one of the rare times when he wore his crown. He was flanked by lords of his court: his brother Will; his uncle Rainald, Earl of Cornwall; the Earls of Leicester and Salisbury; his justiciar, Richard de Lucy; and his chancellor, Thomas Becket. Sitting nearby was the other litigant, Walter de Lucy, who was both brother to Henry’s justiciar and abbot of St Martin’s at Battle, the abbey under episcopal siege. The abbot was looking so complacent that Eleanor assumed the tide must be going his way.

The churchmen were regarding her with poorly disguised disapproval. They were far more worldly than the abbey’s hapless hospitaller, though, and none raised any objections to her presence, however unseemly they considered it. As she glanced toward Thomas Becket, Eleanor thought she detected the faintest shadow of disfavor, but if so, it was swiftly gone. Coming toward her with the grave courtliness that was his hallmark, he escorted her to a front-row seat, and she conceded that his manners were impeccable even if he did come from the merchant class. He found a cushion for her bench, which she graciously accepted; she was in her fifth month of another pregnancy and inclined to take what comforts she could get. She looked over then at Henry, curious to see how he was responding to her intrusion. She doubted that he’d be troubled by her trampling upon tradition, and he justified her confidence; as their eyes met, a corner of his mouth curved slightly and he winked.

Abbot Walter had royal charters from the last three kings; if he had one from Stephen, too, he was wise enough not to mention it. Becket was passing them to the king for Henry’s inspection. As he did, the justiciar continued the argument Eleanor had interrupted: that the wishes of the abbey’s founder, King William of blessed memory, ought to be honored, and his wishes were clearly set forth in the charter.

Eleanor was not surprised to see the bishops frowning at that; even Theobald, a man so good-hearted that some saw him as saintly, was jealous of the Church’s prerogatives, ever vigilant for Crown encroachment into clerical domains. Emboldened by the support of his fellow prelates, the Bishop of Chichester launched a counterattack, insisting that to exempt the abbey from episcopal jurisdiction was to violate canon law.

“The ‘wishes’ of King William, may God assoil him, are therefore not relevant, much less dispositive. I daresay he did want to exempt his abbey, as contended by Abbot Walter’s brother, the justiciar.” Chichester paused, then, to make sure that none in the room missed his unspoken accusation: that the abbot was trading upon his connections with one of the king’s chief officers. “But not even a king’s wishes can always prevail. Would a king be able to amend canon law to meet his own needs? No more than he could depose one of his bishops!”

Henry leaned over to murmur something to Thomas Becket, too softly for other ears to hear. Becket grinned, and Henry then turned his gaze upon Chichester. “Very true,” he agreed amiably, “a bishop cannot be deposed. But he can be driven out.” He demonstrated by pantomiming a shove, and the chamber erupted into the indulgent laughter that a king’s humor could inevitably evoke, no matter how lame the sally.

Chichester was not about to be sidetracked by a jest he found dubious at best. “The spiritual power of the Holy Mother Church must not be diminished or debased by temporal authority. No layman, not even a king, can confer ecclesiastical liberties or exemptions without the consent of the Pope. Therefore, since the original act of King William in granting a charter was ultra vires, it must stand that the exemption, too, was invalid.”

Henry leaned back in his seat, studying the bishop through suddenly narrowed eyes. “This is a strange thing I am hearing, that the charters of past kings, charters confirmed by the full authority of the Crown of England, should be pronounced worthless and arbitrary by you, my lord bishop.”