Sharon Penman: When Christ and his Saints Slept

“Once I was sure that Will’s life was not in danger, I asked him about the Flemings. One of his men speaks Flemish, and he’d overheard some of the Flemish hirelings talking in a Dover alehouse. They were sorely vexed about the peace terms, angry at being cast out of England, and blaming you for their plight, Harry. Will’s servant told him that they were saying it would be for the best if you had a ‘mishap’ of some sort. But Will swears he did not take it seriously. He dismissed it as drunken maunderings, and that is why he said nothing. If he’d believed you to be in real danger, he’d have spoken up straightaway.”

Stephen sounded earnest, yet uneasy, too. Henry did not doubt his sincerity; he believed in his son. And it could have happened just as Will claimed, for he’d struck Henry as an amiable mediocrity. But even a capon might envy the cock; who was to say?

“I daresay you are right, Cousin. The foolish babbling of men in their cups. It is not surprising that Will acted as he did.”

Stephen’s relief was palpable. “I am gladdened that you understand, Harry. It would have been a great pity had Will’s name been tarnished by alehouse gossip. You have no reason to doubt my son’s good faith, that I swear to you.”

“You need not fret, Cousin, for I’ve taken Will’s measure.”

Stephen smiled. “Well, I’d best get back. The doctor gave Will a potion for his pain, but I want to be there when he awakens. Archbishop Theobald was kind enough to put Will up in his own lodgings. If you could find time to stop by later, I know it would mean much to Will…?”

Henry promised that he would, and Stephen was soon striding off buoyantly, intent upon thanking the Almighty for sparing his youngest son. Henry and Becket waited until he’d disappeared into a side door of the cathedral. Only then did they turn away, continuing along the cloister path.

“I hope you plan to watch your back,” Becket said quietly. “I’ve been told that few knives are sharper than a Fleming’s blade.”

“So I’ve heard, too.” Henry’s smile held an edge of its own. “You asked,” he said, “when I’d be returning to Normandy. I think the time has come. I would not want to overstay my welcome, after all.”

On the morning after Henry’s return to Angers, Eleanor awoke with a languorous sense of well-being, which lasted until she realized that she was alone. Sitting up, she brushed her hair out of her eyes. Could Harry not have lingered in bed just this once? No wonder his enemies claimed his energy was demonic. Her clothing lay strewn about the chamber, and the sight brought a soft smile to her lips as she remembered their urgency to reach the bed. Her husband’s scabbard had been hung over a chair and was still there, so at least he was somewhere in the castle. With a sigh, she reached for her bed-robe.

Opening the shutters, Eleanor stood at the window, breathing in the mild April air. She’d selected one of her favorite gowns, a rich wine-red, and she was about to summon Yolande to help her dress when she heard an odd thumping sound out in the stairwell. She opened the door just in time to admit Henry. He had their son slung over his shoulder and was guiding two servants up the stairs as they struggled with a large, unwieldy burden: a carved oaken cradle.

“I thought the tadpole might like to swim in our pond for a while.” Henry gestured toward the hearth as the men dragged the cradle across the threshold. “Put it over there.”

“Harry, you’re holding that child like a sack of flour.”

“He does not mind,” Henry insisted, and as he turned, Eleanor saw that Will did seem content. Now in his eighth month, he was such a placid, cheerful baby that Eleanor sometimes joked he must be a changeling, and he appeared to have taken in stride being awakened and carried off by a man who was a stranger to him.

After the servants had departed, Henry settled his son in the cradle, rocking it back and forth as Will yawned and then began to suck contentedly upon a rattle. When Eleanor joined them, the little boy gurgled happily at sight of her and reached up to snatch at the long tresses tumbling over her shoulder. Evading his grasp, she kissed the crown of his head. “I still find myself marveling at those golden curls of his,” she confided, “for Marie and Alix both have dark hair like mine.”

“Ought he to be putting that rattle into his mouth?”

“He is teething, Harry. When his discomfort gets too bad, we rub honey on his gums or give him a liquorice root to suck on.” Retrieving her brush, Eleanor retreated to the bed. “Do you intend to keep Will in here with us? I doubt that will work out very well.”

“Why not? The lad and I have a lot of catching up to do.” Henry was continuing to rock the cradle and Eleanor had to restrain herself from warning that he’d make Will seasick if he did not ease up. His first efforts at fatherhood might be heavy-handed, but she did not want to discourage him. She was pleased that he was so taken with their son, for too many men treated the nursery as alien territory.

Henry was laughing, for Will was now trying energetically to capture his feet. “Trust me, Will, even if you somehow got those into your mouth, toes do not taste good. He squirms about like an eel, Eleanor. Is he always this lively?”

“Ever since we took off the swaddling.”

“I’ve seen babies swaddled. They look like little caterpillar cocoons. Surely they do not enjoy being wrapped up that way?”

“I never thought about it,” Eleanor admitted. “But it is for their own good, for it keeps them warm and safe.” Henry was leaning over the cradle again, tickling Will and making him squeal with glee. Eleanor watched, smiling. “I hope you’ll be such an attentive father for our other children,” she teased. “A soothsayer told me that we’d have a baker’s dozen ere we’re done, so you’d best gird your loins!”

“For you, anytime.” But his smile was fleeting. He looked down at Will, then back at Eleanor, grey eyes guarded. “There is something you need to know. I have another son.”

Her brush halted in mid-stroke. “Do you, indeed? Do not keep me in suspense, Harry. The ‘why’ is rather obvious. But what of the ‘when’ and ‘where’ of it?”

“He was born last December, in London. I named him Geoffrey.” Henry was annoyed to hear himself adding needlessly, “After my father.” But he was not as confident as he sought to appear, for he was not sure how Eleanor would react. She was the most unpredictable woman he’d ever met, and while that was a great part of her charm, there were times-like now-when he’d have welcomed a fire that gave off a little less heat.

“You intend to recognize him as your own?”

“He is mine, Eleanor. How could I turn away from him?”

“And the mother?”

“She meant nothing to me. If she’d not gotten with child, I’d have long since forgotten her name.”

It was an unchivalrous answer, but the one Eleanor wanted to hear. “Well, then,” she said, “I suppose I should offer my congratulations.”

He did not respond at once, searching her face for sarcasm. “You truly mean that, Eleanor?”

“Why not? I do not begrudge you your joy in this child, and I would not attempt to talk you into shirking your obligations to him. It is all too easy for men to walk away afterward. I find it rather refreshing, Harry, that you did not.”

He was quiet for a moment, marveling. “You never fail to surprise me. It does not vex you that I bedded another woman?”

“More than one, I’d wager,” she said, with a sardonic smile. “It is not as if this comes as any surprise. You were gone nigh on sixteen months, after all. I’d not have expected you to refrain from eating until you could get home to dine with me, so why would I expect you to abstain from other hungers?” She shrugged significantly, then reclined back against the pillows, letting her bed-robe slip open enough to reveal a glimpse of thigh. “It goes without saying, though, that your dining out had best be done at a distance, Harry.”