“He is preparing an army,” went on Matilda. “How I hate this warfare in families.”

“To give him Anjou would be tantamount to throwing it away. How long do you think he would hold it?”

“Not long,” said Matilda.

“There is Ireland.”

“What of Ireland?”

“I had thought of conquering it and giving that to him.”

Matilda was very serious. “You have Anjou, Normandy and England. My dear son, your resources are going to be stretched as far as they can go with those territories. Do not add to that, for the love of God. You could lose them all by taking one more bite. Besides, the Irish are a troublesome race. They would need a constant army to subdue them. And how do you think either of your brothers would like that?”

“I suppose they should have something.”

“Geoffrey has shown that he cannot even hold his own castles. You must come back to Normandy with me. Eleanor can look after matters here. She has good men around her, has she not?”

“She has. There is Becket, my Chancellor, in whom I have great trust, and there are Robert of Leicester and Richard of Luci. Yes, that is what we must do. I will come back with you and settle this brother of mine once and for all. And Eleanor will make sure that all is well here. My two generals ... I am lucky to have you both.”

“You can put your trust in us—can he not?” said Matilda to me.

I agreed that he could.

I was sad that he was going away so soon, but I was reconciled that this would be our way of life. And at least he did me the honor of respecting me to such an extent that he could leave me in charge.

He and Matilda departed. The matter was urgent and once he had decided on a course of action, Henry could never delay.

I was very busy. I had conferences with the Earl of Leicester and Richard of Luci. I liked them both and we understood each other well.

Then one night the nurses came to me in great distress. Little William was fighting hard for his breath, and they feared that he was very ill indeed.

We had had many alarms with William and I was constantly anxious about him. I called in the doctors but, alas, there was nothing they could do. My little William, the boy of whom I had been so proud, passed away while Henry was in Anjou fighting his brother.

I was very sad. I had loved the girls I had had from Louis, but Henry’s boys were especially dear to me.

It was while I was mourning for William that I found I was once more pregnant.

Henry returned from Anjou. He was triumphant. Naturally Geoffrey’s pathetic little revolt had been put down. He did have a certain conscience though, for it was true that his father had said that, when Henry came to the throne of England, Anjou should go to Geoffrey.

Henry explained it to me. “To give it to him would be to throw it away. If my father had really known what he was like, he would never have agreed to that.”

“But he had done so.”

Henry went on: “I have told him he cannot have Anjou ... or Normandy. I must make sure that they are safe. I have compromised with him and I think he is satisfied. An income for life ... a handsome income ... on condition he leaves Anjou to me.”

“That should suffice,” I said.

“My mother will look after Normandy, and if there is any trouble and I have to leave England, you will look after this country for me.”

“We are a close triumvirate,” I replied.

“That is so, my love. You and my mother are my two most trusted generals, as I have told you.”

He was delighted that I was once more with child.

His friendship with Thomas Becket was growing in a manner which surprised not only me. The two were becoming inseparable. They hunted together, hawked together, rode, walked and talked. Like others I could not understand this attraction. They were so unlike each other. Becket was meticulous in his dress; he always wore the finest clothes. He had a love of luxurious living which ill accorded with his calling but which I have often found a characteristic of those who come to gracious living rather than were born to it. True, at Pevensey Castle, where he had spent many years with Sir Richer de l’Aigle, he had developed a fondness for easy living which stayed with him. There was a natural elegance about him; I could understand Henry’s regard for him; but this intense friendship was strange indeed.

Becket was a man of the world, churchman though he might be. That he was unusually clever, I had no doubt. He gave the impression of one who had no regard for ambition. He made no concessions to royalty whatsoever; he treated the King as his equal and had no hesitation in disagreeing with him if he thought fit. It might have been that which Henry found so refreshing. There was no doubt that the man had an unusual charisma.

Henry set him to organize the refurbishment of the palace in the Tower of London, a task which Becket performed with great competence—and extravagance.

Henry was amused and chided Becket about the cost, asking him how he, as a churchman, could spend so much on luxuries for the King when the money might have been spent in helping the poor.

“And what do you think his answer was?” said Henry to me. “‘Better to have a well-housed King than leave him so uncomfortable that his temper frays from time to time.’”

Henry slapped his thigh, indicating how the remark had amused him. Becket was, of course, referring to the King’s rages.

“I pointed out to him that my temper frayed no matter where I was housed, and when I was provoked my rages overcame me.

“‘You admit to weakness,’ he said. ‘That is one step along on the road on which God will guide you.’ What do you think of that?”

“That this man takes great liberties with the King.”

“He cares not for kingship. I am a man. He is a man. That is how he sees it. Becket says what is in his mind. That is why conversation with him is so interesting. He is such an amusing fellow in a quiet and witty way.”

“He should take care that you do not fly into one of your rages with him.”

“With Becket? Never!” He laughed. “Though it would be amusing to see his reaction. I know what he would do. He would stand looking on in silence, watching, and then ask God to forgive me my waywardness.”

“And you would merely say, ‘Thank you, my good and faithful servant, for interceding with your good friend the Almighty on behalf of your humble sovereign.’”

He laughed aloud.

“You must admit he is a great man.”

He went on smiling, evidently thinking of some aspect of their conversation which amused him.

It certainly was a most incongruous friendship, and there was hardly a day when they were not together.

In due course I brought forth a daughter. We both wanted to call her Matilda after Henry’s mother. She was baptized in the priory of the Holy Trinity at Aldgate, which was appropriate, as the priory had been founded by Queen Matilda, the wife of Henry’s grandfather.

I still mourned William, but little Henry had consoled me, and this one was an added comfort. But soon after her birth I began to grow restless. It is probably a state in which women find themselves after childbirth. There is so much preparation before the child appears and one is carried along on a tide of serenity, but when the child is there, life for a time seems lacking in purpose and one feels the need to take some action.

I found the gray skies depressing. I saw the sun too rarely and I felt a longing for my native land.

Henry was in France at this time. There was more trouble over Anjou. I knew that Geoffrey would never be content. He was a born troublemaker.

Suddenly I decided I would consult no one. I would go and visit my own country, taking the children with me.

A great excitement possessed me. I was going home ... perhaps only briefly, for I should never forget that I was Queen of England. I could leave the country in the good hands of Leicester, Richard de Luci—and Becket, of course. So I gave orders to make ready for the journey.

I joined Henry in Anjou. He was pleased to see me and, having settled matters there, agreed that we should take the opportunity, being on the spot, to make a progress through Aquitaine to remind the people that we were their rulers.

I was delighted at the prospect. Alas, I was less contented as the tour proceeded, for, although I was welcomed warmly by my people, it was not the case with Henry, and they did not hide the resentment they felt toward him.

Henry had declared that the government of Aquitaine was inefficient. It was not good enough, he said, to have the province defended by individual castellans who looked after their immediate surroundings. There should be a head of government, and of course that must be Henry, and deputies appointed by him to take charge in his absence according to his wishes.

I knew them well enough to realize that they were asking themselves: Who is this upstart who has married our Duchess and now thinks he owns us? He is worse than the King of France.

It was not as it had been. Alas, life does not stand still. Change comes ... a little here, a little there, and soon the whole picture is different.

I tried to make my Court at the Maubergeonne Tower what it had been in the past, but it was not the same. I had my troubadours, and I was delighted to see Bernard de Ventadour, who had earlier graced my Court with his verses and his rendering of them in exquisite music.

Henry had his life—his rough riding, his forays into the countryside, his journeys, his friendship with Becket. I would have mine. I did not care for the outdoor life. I longed for those days when I had my poets around me singing of romantic adventures. And I was going to have it.