Alison Weir - Captive Queen

Well, she would not be defeated in the bedroom by Becket! She was a woman of experience and she had weapons at her disposal. Smiling welcomingly at Henry, she raised herself up on one elbow, letting her chemise fall open to reveal her voluptuous breasts.

“Would you prefer to talk?” she murmured, but Henry’s troubled eyes, deep pools of gray fire, had suddenly lit up, and he reached for her, burying his face in her neck, biting her hungrily as his hands roved over her body. He was not a man to waste time, and within seconds they were locked together in the old, familiar way, lust igniting powerfully as so many times before. All that Eleanor wanted at this moment was to feel him inside her and never let him go.

When, later, they had slid apart and Henry lay catching his breath beside her, she turned her face to his.

“Becket was disguised as a monk, you say?”

“Yes,” Henry grunted.

“It’s strange,” Eleanor recalled, “but some nights back—it was the night after you confronted Becket—I was watching from my window and I saw two monks leaving the castle. I did wonder what they were doing. You don’t think …?”

“My God, that must have been him!” Henry cried, sitting up suddenly. “He left that very night. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“There was nothing to say. I thought them of little consequence. I had no idea, in fact I’d forgotten all about them until now.” Eleanor realized she was stammering.

“Of course,” Henry relented, subsiding onto the pillows beside her. “How could you have known?” His body was tense, rigid, his attitude no longer that of a lover but of a man in pain. “By God, I will find him,” he muttered. “There is not a place in all Christendom where he can hide from me.”

She had lost him once more. His thoughts were clearly over the sea with his Thomas. He was obsessing again over how he could carry on the fight with his renegade archbishop. He was lying there, his troubled gray eyes staring up at the vaulted ceiling, unaware that she was still there beside him. It was useless. Her heart heavy, she rolled over, turned her back to him, and pretended to go to sleep.

Another Christmas, and here they were in the Great Tower of Marlborough Castle, perched high on its mound on the edge of Savernake Forest, where Henry was hoping for some good hunting. Geoffrey, Henry’s bastard, now fourteen, had just drawn the bean from his slice of the traditional cake, and was in consequence proclaimed Lord of Misrule for the evening. He had begun his sovereignty by issuing the most daring forfeits, and was even now challenging every handsome man in the room to kiss the cheek of the Queen.

“That should narrow the field!” Eleanor laughed. She loved the levity of the Yuletide season.

“By God, I’ll have their balls if they show the slightest scanting of respect!” Henry growled good-naturedly.

It was a shame that the French envoys timed their arrival just now, when the court was at its merriest. A page came and whispered in the King’s ear, and his grin faded.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he told his wife, and she watched as he threaded his way through the revelers, absentmindedly ruffling his giggling daughter Eleanor’s dark curls on the way. After waiting in vain an hour for him to return, the Queen could bear it no longer, and so murmured her excuses and hurriedly made her way up the spiral stair to the King’s solar, the sounds of jollity receding as she ascended. There was a light under the wooden door. He was there, as she had expected. She turned the iron ring. As she entered the room, Henry turned a ravaged face to her.

“What has happened?” she asked, forbearing to go to him, and horribly aware of the aching distance between them.

“Louis!” he snapped. “He has offered Thomas his support and asked His Holiness not to heed any unjust accusations against him.” He got up and began stomping up and down the room, working himself into an incandescent rage. “But Thomas had got to the Pope first, and do you know what he did? He complained that I had harassed him!”

“But Henry, the Pope is on your side and always has been,” Eleanor soothed.

“Not anymore!” Henry’s mouth was twisted in an ugly, anguished grimace. “He has threatened me with excommunication!” he roared. “By the eyes of God, that priest will be the death of me! I will tolerate him no longer. Let them do their damned worst! I’m going to bed.”

He was beyond consolation, beside himself with anger and pain. His face red and livid, he tore the cap from his head, threw it on the floor, then unbuckled his belt and tossed it to the far side of the room. Nearly weeping with frustration, he shrugged off his cloak and his fine, long robes, donned in honor of the season, and kicked off his braies; then, naked and trembling, he ripped the silken coverlet from his bed and sat down heavily on it, his hands and face working in distress. Overcome with frustration, he abruptly clawed back the sheet, grabbed a handful of straw from his mattress, and stuffing it in his mouth as if to stop himself from howling out loud, began chewing it voraciously.

“Henry …” Eleanor began, but he flung out an arm to silence her, his outthrust jaw chomping, his face a mask of agony. Then he got up, walked to the fire, and spat out the straw. “Just go,” he said.

He remained in a foul mood throughout the festivities, his anger at Becket, Louis, and the Pope gnawing at him remorselessly. On St. Stephen’s Day, Eleanor attempted yet again to talk to him, but he silenced her with a glare. No one could reach him; he was too deeply sunk in ire and misery. That evening, deeply concerned for him, she decided to try again. She found him calmer, however. He was sealing a document, which he then handed to one of his clerks.

“This is my revenge!” he declared.

“What is?” she asked, wondering what on earth it could be, and if it would provoke more trouble.

“An order for the banishment of every one of Thomas’s relatives from England,” Henry said with grim satisfaction.

“But they have done nothing wrong! And there are many of them, women, children, old folk.” Eleanor was appalled.

“About four hundred, I think,” Henry said with some satisfaction. “They will be stripped of all their possessions and deported. Let them beg for their food!”

“Henry, I beg of you, rescind that order!” she pleaded, falling on her knees. “It is cruel, it is vindictive, and it is born purely of unbridled passion, which is unbecoming in a king of your wisdom.”

He stared coldly down at her. “Get up. It’s no use, Eleanor. These tactics are necessary. Thomas is in Rome, beyond my reach, but this should bring him hurrying back. Let him see the consequences of his defiance; let him feel the heat of my anger, and know what it is to be my enemy.”

Eleanor rose to her feet, shot him a withering look, and was about to leave when Henry grabbed her hand.

“I have thought of a way to force Pope Alexander and King Louis to abandon Becket,” he said. “You had better hear about it, as it concerns our daughters.”

“Our daughters?” Eleanor echoed. “How can they be involved? What new scheme is this?”

“I intend to make an alliance with the German Emperor, Frederick Barbarossa,” Henry revealed smugly. “That will put the noses of His Holiness and King Louis out of joint, I can tell you, because our friend the Emperor is Louis’s enemy, and he has supported Alexander’s rival, the antipope Victor. I’ll wager that Louis and Alexander will do anything to stop me from allying with Frederick, and that the very prospect of it will make them shit themselves and drop Becket like a hot cake!”