Beloved Enemy by Ellen Jones

Author:Ellen Jones [Jones, Ellen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-4532-8910-5
Publisher: Open Road
Published: 2012-12-13T16:21:00+00:00

Chapter 27

“BLESS MY SOUL, HE’S not yet crowned and already Henry of Anjou is causing trouble,” said the archbishop of Canterbury to Thomas Becket after Prime the following morning, as he handed him the gold crosier of his office.

They were in the sacristy and Thomas was helping Theobald remove the gold-embroidered dalmatic, alb, and gem-encrusted miter that he had worn for the liturgical services.

“First he puts everyone’s nose out of joint at the council meeting, then risks his life in a gambling den, finally disappears with an unsavory cake-vendor,” said Roger de Pont l’Évêque, the archbishop’s chief secretary and a man of some consequence in the Primate’s household. “Couldn’t you have stopped him, Bailhache?”

Thomas stiffened but refrained from comment.

“Might as well expect Thomas to grab a wild boar by the tail, Roger. What a merry chase this prince will lead us.” Theobald sniffed. “Typical Norman behavior.” He put on the black monastic robe Roger handed him.

Thomas repressed a smile. Despite the apparent mildness of his manner, Theobald, Norman down to his toenails, exhibited all the flinty stubbornness of his race. Thomas continued to ignore Pont l’Évêque. A scion of an old and honorable Norman family, he wore a perpetual sneer on his face. The two had been rivals for Theobald’s favor since Thomas first came to the archbishop’s household in January of the year 1144.

Theobald left the sacristy, followed by Thomas and Roger, and walked stiffly to his own quarters in the Bishop’s Palace. At the door, he turned to Roger.

“Leave us, my son. I would speak with Thomas alone.”

Pont l’Évêque bowed and shot Thomas a venomous look which Thomas rewarded with an icy smile.

“I’m not easy in my mind about Duke Henry, Thomas, but we’ll get to that in a moment,” said Theobald, seating himself in his cushioned wooden armchair and indicating a stool for Thomas. “First I wish to ask you about the details of your trip to Normandy …” He let his voice trail off into one of his long silences, grown more frequent of late.

Used to Theobald’s habits, Thomas looked enviously around the resplendent chamber with its vaulted ceiling. Elaborate tapestries depicting the Nativity in blue, white, and scarlet wools hung on the walls. Enameled reliquaries, several gold caskets, a large book bound in ivory and metal that Thomas had long coveted, were laid out on polished oak tables. A huge silver crucifix blazing with pearls, rubies, sapphires, and lapis lazuli dominated the chamber from its place of pride on one wall. Two goblets of wine and a silver platter of honey cakes rested on a table in front of them.

Thomas thought of Duke Henry but an image of Roger de Pont l’Évêque’s face imposed itself in his mind and would not budge. Bailhache he had called him; the name still rankled even after ten years.

Thomas saw an image of himself at the age of twenty-four, trying to mask his excitement as he approached the archbishop’s residence at Harrow. He owed this wondrous opportunity to his father, who had been a childhood playmate of Theobald in Rouen.

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