Flaunting, Extravagant

Queen

NEWS OF MURDER

It was the first day of the year 1171 and in the Castle at Argentan they had been celebrating the passing of the old year and welcoming in the new. The King was in a good mood anticipating with pleasure his return to England and reunion with his mistress Rosamund Clifford. Since his wife, Queen Eleanor, had become aware of her existence, there was no longer the need to keep the liaison secret. Not that he, King of England, Duke of Normandy and the rest, was afraid of his wife, although she could be formidable. His anxiety had been that she might take some revenge on Rosamund before he could prevent her doing so. Eleanor must learn that he was master, but it was a conclusion which she had evaded for the nineteen years of their marriage.

Yet he supposed theirs had not been an entirely unsatisfactory union. She had provided him with four sons and two daughters – a good tally – and not only that: her rich lands of Aquitaine, which she had brought to the marriage, had extended his possessions and made the King of England the most powerful man in Europe.

He had much on which to congratulate himself. He had brought that justice back to England which under the reign of weak Stephen the country had lost; he had managed to cling to his possessions overseas; he had skilfully arranged the marriages of his children – all but six-year-old Joanna and five-year-old John – to bring him the utmost advantage, and he was in fact feared and respected throughout his kingdom – and others.

Although on this New Year’s Day he was in a benevolent mood, all men knew that his notorious temper could be aroused at any moment. Then his pinkish skin would become dull red and his eyes would grow fierce, his nostrils flare until he would resemble the lion to which he was so often compared. He had never been able to control those tempers, nor did he see any reason why he should. When he was angry he wanted men to know it. His rages were terrible. During them he lost all control of his actions and would vent his fury on any inanimate objects which happened to be at hand, often causing damage to himself. He had been known to roll on the floor and gnaw the rushes at such times.

Eleanor had said: ‘One day when you are in one of your rages you will do yourself a mischief.’

He remembered the glint in her eyes, and he had cried: ‘You would not be displeased if I did, my lady, I fancy.’

She had not denied it. She had always been defiant, never showing fear of him, constantly reminding him that though he might be King of England, she was the Duchess of Aquitaine.

He doubted she would care if he were dead. In fact the event might please her. There was their son to follow him to the throne. Young Henry, already crowned King, handsome, with all the charm imaginable, already binding men to him by the sheer attractiveness of his personality. It was unwise to crown a son King while his father still lived. Becket had been against it.

‘Ah, my Lord Archbishop,’ muttered Henry, ‘was that perhaps because you were not the one to perform the ceremony?’

Young Henry was now leaving boyhood behind him. He was sixteen. Boys did grow ambitious at such an age. The King admitted to himself that he did now and then feel uneasy and had asked himself whether he had acted thoughtlessly during the preceding year when he had allowed his son to be crowned.

Well, it was done; and if he, the King, were to die within a few weeks – which was not unlikely for he was constantly leading his armies against some rebel who had thought to take advantage of his many commitments – then England would have an undisputed king who had already been crowned and bore the title.

He would not allow such thoughts to disturb him on this day. He would think of home and Rosamund and their two boys and the domestic peace he could find with no one but her. He was glad Eleanor had walked through the maze of trees that day and discovered the Bower where he had hidden Rosamund. He was tired of Eleanor. It suited him well that she should go to Aquitaine; he hoped she would stay there; he no longer desired her. She was nearly twelve years older than he was; and there was no need to get more children by her, when they already had six and in any case she was now past the age of childbearing. It was good to be rid of her spiteful tongue, for she made no effort to control it now that she had a reason in Rosamund for hating him. As if she, a woman of such worldliness, could have expected him to be faithful to her! That was not exactly the case. Like so many women of her kind she would accept the casual adventure. The fact that galled her was that he could actually love someone as he loved Rosamund, and let her continue to bear his children, that she was someone to whom he could go for peace and comfort, someone who could be to him a wife as his Queen could not be. That roused her venom and set her thinking of how she could most effectively revenge herself on him.

Let her try.

Rosamund was so different. He brooded on how he had first seen her in her father’s castle in Shropshire where he had rested on some expedition into Wales; she had been an innocent young virgin; he had desired her and there had been no one to deny him – not Sir Walter Clifford, her father, nor the fair Rosamund herself; and ever since … she had been as a wife to him. A dear docile creature, never complaining of his infidelities, never seeking prizes for herself, always there when he needed her to comfort him.

He was fortunate in Rosamund and now that Eleanor was away he could safely bring her to Court. He hoped his wife would never come back to England.

A shout from below broke into this pleasant reverie.

He called out: ‘What goes?’

One of his attendants was hurrying to him.

‘My lord, riders are coming to the castle.’

He was at the window. Riders, yes. And they came from England. Trouble! It could only mean trouble. Who had risen against him now? Well, it would hasten his return and the sooner he would be with Rosamund.

He was in the hall when they came in. They threw themselves at his feet and he cried impatiently: ‘What news? What news?’

‘The Archbishop of Canterbury is dead, my lord.’

‘Dead!’

‘Murdered, my lord, in his own Cathedral.’

‘Oh, my God, no. This cannot be true. Who has done this deed?’

‘Four of your knights, my lord. Reginald FitzUrse, William de Tracy, Hugh de Morville and Richard le Breton.’

‘My knights,’ he said.

The messengers bowed their heads.

‘Why did they do this?’ muttered the King. ‘What can have made them commit such a crime?’

The messengers remained silent. They dared not tell him that the knights had said they had done the deed at the King’s command.

‘Thomas … dead!’ went on the King talking to himself. ‘It cannot be. It must not be.’

‘My lord,’ said one of the messengers, ‘the deed was done but three days ago and we came with all speed, knowing it would be your wish to be acquainted with the fact.’

‘Go … refresh yourselves … leave me with my grief,’ said the King. He called to his servants. ‘Bring me sackcloth. I shall change my robes. This for me is a day of mourning.’

Thomas … dead! Old friend and now enemy, dead! So many memories came crowding into his mind. The jokes they had shared when Thomas had been his Chancellor and best friend. ‘Do not make me your Archbishop,’ he had said, ‘for that will be the end of our friendship.’ Was that a premonition? For how right he had been and what bitter enemies they had become. What had he said to those four knights that they should have taken their swords and stormed the Cathedral? What part had he played in this?