Sharon Penman: When Christ and his Saints Slept

Dover-Canterbury Road, Kent, England

March 1154

Early in Lent, Henry accompanied Stephen to Dover to meet the Count of Flanders and his wife, Henry’s paternal aunt. On this rain-sodden March Friday, they departed Dover Castle in midmorning, bound for Canterbury. They were still about five miles from the city when the archbishop’s saddle girth began to slip. A hasty examination revealed that the girth buckle was giving way and the royal cavalcade halted while the problem was corrected.

As the delay lengthened, Henry found it increasingly difficult to hide his impatience. Stephen’s son, Will, and a few of his companions were amusing themselves by galloping their horses across a nearby meadow. Henry was half tempted to join in, but although the rain had stopped, the ground was still muddy and slick, and he was not willing to endanger his stallion just to keep boredom at bay.

As he fidgeted by the side of the road, watching the races, he was joined by one of the archbishop’s clerks, who reported that the saddle girth was taking longer than expected to repair. When the clerk lingered after delivering his message, Henry was pleased, for he’d found Thomas Becket to be good company.

At first glance, they seemed too unlike for friendship; Becket was more than twelve years Henry’s senior, having been born a month after the sinking of the White Ship, and they did not share the same affinity for the religious life. But what they had in common mattered more than what they did not: a keen intelligence, a love of learning, unfettered ambition, and an ironic eye for life’s incongruities. Henry thought he could find use for a man of Becket’s talents, looking ahead to that day when England’s government would be his for the shaping. But whether Becket ever became a royal councilor or not, at the moment, he was a welcome diversion, and Henry was in need of one; had he been asked to describe Purgatory, he’d have said it was a place of infernal and endless waiting.

The past few months had been busy ones for Henry and Stephen: formalizing the agreement they’d struck at Winchester, getting the barons of the realm to do homage to Henry as their future king, issuing orders to demolish those castles judged illegal, preparing to expel foreign mercenaries. Becket knew they’d not been pleasant months for Henry, filled with dawn-to-dusk activity, but not much satisfaction. It was with a touch of sympathy, therefore, that he asked, “Is it true that your uncle has gone back to Wales?”

Henry nodded. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he reminded me that he’d not seen his wife and son for more than a year. I reminded him in turn that I’d not seen my wife for more than a year, either, and had yet to lay eyes upon my son. But he then pointed out that it was my crown, not his, and that left me with nothing to say except ‘Godspeed.’”

“How much longer ere you can go back to Normandy?”

“I would that I knew. Soon, I hope. Others might see me as the heir apparent, the next king. But just between you and me, Thomas, I feel more like the chief mourner at a funeral, waiting around for the ‘deceased’ to take sick. Surely I can put my time to better use than that?”

“Some men might be content to keep a death watch,” Becket agreed, sounding amused, “but for certes, not you.”

Henry glanced curiously at the older man. Becket stood high in the archbishop’s favor, and with so illustrious a patron, he could have a promising career in the Church, if he wanted it. But did he? “I know you’ve been in the archbishop’s service for the past eight years. He told me that when the next opening for an archdeacon comes up, he means to appoint you. You’d have to take holy orders, first, of course. And you have not…have you?”

“Not yet.”

Henry considered that answer, trying to understand how a man could choose of his own free will to give up so much, even for God. “I do not think I’d have made a good priest myself,” he said at last.

“I suspect you’d have had particular trouble with the vow of chastity,” Becket said dryly, and Henry grinned.

“I probably would not have done so well with the obedience vow, either,” he conceded. “Fortunately, the qualifications are less stringent for kings.”

Becket grinned, too. “I understand it helps,” he said slyly, “if a king does not fall off his horse.”

Henry had heard, of course, of Stephen’s balky stallion. “At least not three times in a row,” he laughed, and then grabbed for Becket, pulling the other man aside just as several of the racers galloped past, spraying mud in all directions.

Henry’s quick action had saved Becket from a thorough dousing, but the hem of his mantle had still gotten splattered. He frowned at the splotched wool, then gazed after the riders, shaking his head in disapproval. “What a pity,” he said, “that some men make such poor use of the wits God gave them.” And then, “Jesu!” for as they watched, one of the horses slipped in the mud, scrabbled futilely to retain its footing, and went down.

Henry had not seen the rider. It was not until he heard Stephen’s anguished cry that he realized it was Will. With Becket a stride or two behind, he hastened toward the fallen stallion. But Stephen got there first, made fleet by his fear. Will was pinned under the horse, and it took several men to pull him free. The hapless stallion was beyond help, doomed by a shattered foreleg, thrashing about in terror until a soldier mercifully put an end to its suffering.

At first sight, the king’s son did not seem likely to survive his stallion. Will’s face was blanched under a coating of mud, his flaxen hair darkening with blood. His mouth was contorted, blue eyes clouded with fear and pain, and he plucked frantically at Stephen’s sleeve as his father bent over him. “It hurts so…,” he moaned, and Stephen found himself thrust back in time to an August night, hot and humid, watching in horror as Eustace choked to death. Merciful God, not again!

“Papa…” Will clung to Stephen’s hand as if his father alone could save him. “Do not let me die…”

“You are not dying, Will,” Stephen promised recklessly. “I swear you are not!”

But Will did not believe him. “I’ve sinned,” he sobbed, “but I am sorry. Do not let me be damned…”

Shouting hoarsely for a doctor, Stephen blotted blood away as it trickled down into Will’s eyes. “Lie easy, lad,” he pleaded. “You make it worse for yourself when you move.”

“I ought to have told you…” Will’s eyes were riveted upon his father’s face. “I did not truly think they’d do it, though. I swear I did not…”

“I know, lad,” Stephen said soothingly, “I know. Try not to talk.”

“I must,” the youth insisted weakly, “lest I die ere I am shriven of my sin.” Sweat beaded his forehead, his upper lip. “Murder,” he whispered. “The Flemings…they mean to kill him…”

“Kill him?” Stephen repeated numbly. “What are you talking about?”

“The Flemings…” Will’s voice faltered. “They spoke of killing Maude’s son…”

“Christ Jesus…” Stephen raised his head, appalled by what he’d just heard, only to see Henry standing behind him, so close that he must have heard, too.

Stephen had been searching all over Christ Church Priory for Henry, finally finding him in the cloisters with Thomas Becket. They fell silent as he approached, Henry’s face giving away nothing of his thoughts-or his intentions. “How is Will?” he asked politely, noncommittally.

“God is indeed good, for the doctor says he’ll live.” Stephen told them then, about Will’s injuries: a gashed forehead, cracked ribs, and the most serious, a broken thigh bone. His convalescence would be a lengthy one, but he would heal in time. Henry and Becket wished Will a quick recovery, a response dictated by courtesy, not telling Stephen what he needed to know. He’d considered saying nothing, gambling on the off chance that Henry might have missed Will’s mumbled confession. But as his eyes met Henry’s, Stephen realized how foolish that would have been; Maude’s son was not one to be bluffed.