“Now,” said Henry, “the romantic story begins. This is what you will want to sing about.”

“The Emir’s daughter dined with her father, and she was impressed by Gilbert’s fair looks as well as his talk.”

“You know what is coming,” said Henry to me.

“There was love between them?” I asked.

Thomas Becket nodded. “Of course he was a Christian and she was of another faith. For all his friendship with my father, the Emir would never have agreed to a marriage between them. She was very determined. She insisted on my father’s teaching her to become a Christian. He gave her a name ... a Christian name. He called her Mahault—which is another name for Matilda—because that was the name of the wife of the great Norman, Duke William, who had conquered England. My father was fully aware of the dangerous game he was playing. If the Emir discovered how far this matter with his daughter had gone, he would be put to death ... very likely crucified, a favorite punishment for Christians. They were always singing the praises of One who died in such a manner, so it seemed logical that they should die in the same way. My father was prepared for that, for he was a deeply dedicated Christian.”

I cannot remember his exact words, but he went on to tell us how the Christian prisoners planned to escape and Gilbert, of course, was to escape with them. His position had made it possible for him to help them, and this as a Christian he was committed to do. But there was Mahault. He could not take her, of course; but his duty lay with his fellow Christians. The escape was well planned and succeeded.

“And the poor girl was left behind?” I cried.

“She was heartbroken. They thought she would die. Then suddenly she began to recover, because she had decided what she would do. She was going to England to find Gilbert. She planned with care, sewing priceless jewels into her garments, and when she was ready she stole out of the Emir’s palace and set out. There were many pilgrims on the road and she joined a party of them. She found some who could speak her language and told them what she planned to do. She knew two words in English: London and Gilbert. It seemed that God was watching over her, for in time she arrived in England.”

“Now comes the end of the story,” said Henry. “I like it.”

“Yes,” said Becket. “She went through the streets of London calling Gilbert. That was all. She became a familiar sight. People talked of her—the strange woman with the Eastern look who knew only two words—Gilbert and London. She called for him, sometimes piteously, sometimes hopefully. It was my father’s servant who saw her, for he had been in captivity with my father. He took her to him. The quest was over.”

“There,” said Henry, “is that not a tale of true romance?”

“It is indeed. I never heard the like.”

“It was God—making sure that we had a Thomas Becket.” Henry slapped the man on the back.

I certainly was intrigued by the story but most of all perhaps by the quick friendship Henry appeared to have formed with this man.

Later I spoke of him.

“It is not surprising that this Becket is an unusual man,” I said, “with such a father and an Eastern mother.”

“A woman of great purpose.”

“And a noble gentleman.”

“Yes, that is what produced Becket.”

“I wonder what his childhood was like in such circumstances.”

“He has told me parts. He was brought up in a very religious way. His mother was a convert to Christianity and, remember, they are often the most intense. Both his parents wanted him to go into the Church. A nobleman who had visited the house was interested in their story of the strange marriage and naturally his attention turned to Thomas. He took him to his home in Pevensey Castle and brought him up as a nobleman’s son.”

“Ah yes, there is certainly a touch of the nobleman about him. His tastes would appear to be expensive.”

“I tell him he is too fastidious for a commoner,” said Henry.

“He could scarcely accuse you of being too fastidious.”

“Becket did not want to go into the Church. He fancied business. He did well—which was to be expected. Then disaster struck. His mother died and his father’s house was burned to the ground—and soon after that Gilbert died. Becket was melancholy. His parents had meant a great deal to him. Theobald, who had become Archbishop of Canterbury and remembered playing with Gilbert as a boy, persuaded Thomas to join his household. Thomas was twenty-five then. Of course, there he was noticed immediately.”

“Yes, he is a man who would be. He is so tall ... and those dark eyes of his, which he must have inherited from his mother, are very handsome. His very thinness makes him look taller and he seems to stand about four inches above other men.”

“He did not stay in the Archbishop’s house. There were those who were jealous of him and made his life difficult, and although Theobald was aware of Thomas’s brilliance, he let him go for the sake of the peace of the household. He sent him to his brother Walter, who was the Archdeacon of Canterbury. After Walter’s death, Becket took that post.”

“He hardly seems like a man of the Church.”

“No, he is far too amusing. I think he considered for a time which way he should go.”

“He seems to have taken your fancy.”

“I verily believe he is the most interesting man I have met since coming to these shores.”

I suppose I should not have been surprised when shortly afterward Henry told me that he had made Becket his Chancellor.

I was now heavily pregnant. Henry had left London and was traveling through the country. I missed Matilda and wished she were with me. But I had Petronilla, now a sober matron, mother and widow, quite a different person from the frivolous girl whose hasty love affair had created such consternation.

Eagerly I awaited the birth. From the palace I could look across the river to the Tower of London, that great sentinel which guarded the eastern side, and from there to the west, dominated by the spire of the cathedral, and beyond to Ludgate. I could see the strand along the river, with the wharves and the houses of the nobility with their fine gardens and their boats staked to the privy stairs which ran down to the river. I knew the strand led to Westminster Palace where we should have taken up residence, of course, if it had been fit for habitation. This would have to be remedied. There would be so much for me to do. But first I must give birth to my child.

It was not a difficult birth, and there was great rejoicing throughout the palace when it was over and I had another boy.

I said: “This one shall be called Henry after his father.”

After the birth of the child, I took my place beside Henry in his journeyings around the country. I was enthralled by my new realm and wanted to learn as much about it as possible. The people were very different from the natives of Aquitaine, but I liked them nonetheless. They marveled at me and I felt that they were by no means hostile. They had taken to Henry; his ways suited them. They liked his careless way of dressing, his rough and ready style. I suppose he made them feel he was one of them. On the other hand they did appreciate my elegance and they were obviously delighted and rather overawed by my appearance. They were very interested in my clothes and seemed to like their Queen to look attractive.

So that was a happy time.

One could not expect it to continue. We were both back in Bermondsey for a brief respite when we were disturbed by a visitor, Henry’s brother Geoffrey.

We made much of him, but I could see he was envious and bent on making trouble. That irritated me. Did he think he would have had the wit and courage to win this crown? People like Geoffrey wanted everything to fall into their hands with no effort from themselves.

I guessed that he had come to see what he could get, and he soon made it clear that I was right about that.

“Now you have England,” he said, “Anjou should be mine.”

“I think not,” retorted Henry.

“It was what our father intended.”

“You could not hold on to Anjou.”

“Why should I not?”

“Because you lack the experience to do so,” Henry told him. “I cannot throw away my father’s inheritance. He left you three castles.”

“And you took them from me.”

“I might restore them.”

Geoffrey was furious. He left us in a huff.

Henry snapped his fingers. “Young fool,” he said. “How long does he think he would hold Anjou?”

“He has a very high opinion of himself,” I replied. “What a lucky escape I had. The young fool had the temerity to make a bid for me. Of course, it was doomed to failure—as all Geoffrey’s projects would be.”

Henry dismissed his brother from his mind but I did not think the matter would end there.

Then Matilda announced her intention of coming to England. Henry was delighted and great preparations were made to receive her.

“She will want to see you in your crown,” I said. “She has dreamed of that for so long.”

“And worked for it,” said Henry soberly.

She was indefatigable in his service. No sooner had she come than I realized she had a purpose in doing so.

“I think it is necessary for you to come over,” she told Henry. “Geoffrey is intent on trouble.”

“He has been here, you know,” said Henry.

“I do know it. He came back with grievances. You are brothers, he says. Why should you have everything?”

“It was as my father left it,” said Henry. “But I have been thinking I should do something for Geoffrey.”

“Not Normandy,” said Matilda.

“No. And not Anjou either. I don’t intend to throw away my dominions.”