Henry would have to go, of course. I was delighted that Richard had quite a long time to stay with me.

I said: “Into whose household did you propose to send him?”

“Why, Becket’s, of course.”

“Becket’s!”

“Why not? I shall send him to England with the child very soon.”

“You have told Becket?”

“I have.”

“And what does he think?”

“He is delighted. He already loves the boy.”

I said: “At least he will be brought up to have a pride in his appearance.”

That amused Henry. “True,” he said. “He will be turned into an exquisite gentleman who will please his mother. Becket will make a man of him as well.”

Of course the boy would have his riding masters, his archery instructors; he would learn the laws of chivalry and everything that was necessary to his upbringing; and with Becket he would be trained in art, literature, music and all those accomplishments which I thought so necessary. No, I was not displeased. If he had to go to someone, Becket was the best choice.

“And what,” I said, “if Becket becomes the Archbishop of Canterbury?”

“I seen no harm in the future King’s being brought up in the household of an Archbishop, do you?”

“None whatsoever,” I replied.

“There is something else. I want to make sure that there is no strife after my death. I want Henry crowned King of England.”

“What ... now!”

He nodded. “I lead a somewhat hazardous life. Here one day, but who knows where I shall be the next. What if I were to die tomorrow?”

“God forbid!”

“Thank you for your heartfelt expression of love for me.”

“Why do you talk of death in this way?”

“Because it is all around us. I want to make the throne safe for the boy.”

“But he is the natural heir.”

“There would be some, I daresay, to cast doubt on that. I want to be sure that, when I die, there is a king on the throne. I want Henry crowned ... soon.”

“But what of you?”

“There will be two Kings.”

“Two Kings! Who ever heard of such! And one a boy of six.”

“He shall be King before I die. He won’t know it, of course. It will make no difference, but he will be crowned, and if I died tomorrow, he is the King of England. The English would be very loath to turn from the throne one who has been anointed as their King.”

“I wonder at the wisdom of it.”

“I am sure of the wisdom of it.”

“Would the lords agree?”

“They might have to be persuaded.”

“I expect you could do that.”

“With Becket’s help.”

“You have discussed this with Becket?”

“Not yet. Of course if he were Archbishop of Canterbury he would crown the boy.”

This man amazed me. I felt I should never know him.

We traveled to Rouen to see Matilda, who received us with great joy. She had changed even in the time since I had last seen her. I wondered if I should alter like that when my life was nearing its end. She was no longer the stormy creature of her earlier years. I believe her rages had been as violent as Henry’s, only more dignified. I could not imagine her lying on the floor biting the rushes. Now she was a lady of good works. The people of Normandy had always respected her; it was those of England who would not have her. She had completed a Cistercian house near Lillebonne, was very proud of it and pleased that she had lived long enough to see its completion for, she told me, when she had been in Oxford, just before she had sped across the ice, she had made a vow to God that, if he would allow her to escape, she would build such a place.

Now she felt at peace.

Henry talked to her as he always had. He really did regard her as one of his generals. He always remembered that he could rely on her loyalty as on few others’, and in addition to that he respected her judgment.

He talked about the vacant See of Canterbury.

“Theobald was a good man,” she said. “It is always a sadness to lose such as he was. He was never a friend of mine. He was always Stephen’s man, but he was unswerving in his devotion, and being a man of some wisdom he must have known that Stephen was not good for the country. Then on Stephen’s death he turned to you with great relief. But he would never have helped you while Stephen lived. That is the sort of man you want around you. As I grow older, I regard loyalty as the greatest gift.”

“We have to fill the vacancy,” Henry said.

“Which you must do with the utmost care. An Archbishop of Canterbury can have too much power for a monarch’s comfort.”

“That is what I think,” said Henry. “It is why I am considering putting Becket in it.”

Matilda put her hand to her throat and turned pale.

“Becket!” she cried. “Oh no, you must not do that.”

“Why?” cried Henry. “He is the very man. He will work with me ... not against me ... as so many churchmen would do. I want no one taking his orders from Rome.”

“I feel it would be wrong to appoint Becket,” she said quietly.

“You do not know him as I do.”

“He is not so much a man of the Church as a diplomat.”

“Why should not the two go together?”

“It would be wrong.”

“I tell you, you do not know Becket.”

“I know it would not work.”

“But why ... why? Give me one reason why it would be wrong.”

I reached out and touched her hand. She took mine and held it fast. “I spend a great deal of time in prayer and meditation now, Henry,” she said. “I can only say that something tells me it would be wrong. If you do this you will regret it. It will bring you great sorrow.”

“To have my best friend in such a post!”

“He cannot be Chancellor and Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Why not? Tell me why not.”

“He cannot,” she said.

“My dear lady Empress, you are not acting with your usual good sense. Tell me what you have against Becket.”

“Nothing—except that he must not be your Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Why? Why? Why?”

“I know it. There will be pain and suffering ... violence. It must not be. I know these things.”

Henry said: “I have made up my mind.”

“Becket has not agreed yet,” I reminded him.

“Becket will do as he is told.”

I could see that opposition was strengthening Henry’s resolve. Usually he listened to his mother but in this matter I feared his mind was made up.

When I was alone with her, Matilda said to me: “Try to persuade him. It is wrong. I am convinced of it.”

“You know Henry. Can anyone ask him to change his mind once he has made it up?”

“Oh, he is obstinate ... obstinate. I trust this will not come to pass.”

“If you know something ... if you could give him some good reason, he would listen to you.”

She touched her heart. “It is just a feeling I have here.”

And that was all she would say.

We took our farewells of her. Henry was as affectionate as ever toward her but he did not mention Becket to her again.

I said to him: “She is very insistent. It was almost as though she had some spiritual knowledge.”

“She has become very religious. I would never have believed it of her. She thinks Thomas a dandy, an ambitious man—and of course that is not her idea of what a man of the Church should be.”

“She did not say that ... just that she had a strong conviction.”

“She is growing old, alas. She was a great woman when she was younger.”

I said: “I think she is a great woman now. Have you discussed this matter of Becket with your ministers?”

“The decision is mine.”

“Why not wait until you get back to England and take it up with Leicester and de Luci?”

“I don’t need to. My mind is made up.”

“And you think Becket will accept?”

“I think he must when he knows it is my will.”

I knew then that Becket would become our next Archbishop of Canterbury.

Becket’s reaction to the suggestion was one of dismay. Henry told me of his reluctance.

“He declares that it will be the end of our friendship.”

“Why so?”

“Because the Church has always been at variance with the State.”

“Did you not tell him that your reason for appointing him was that your being such great friends—one head of the State, end head of the Church—you could put an end to such variance?”

“I told him that, yes.”

“And what did he say?”

“That if the variance was there, our friendship would not change it.”

“I must admit it is a strange appointment for such an ambitious man.”

“All archbishops are ambitious. Otherwise they would be parish priests all their lives.”

“But a man who is known for his sumptuous hospitality, who lives like a prince, who spends most of his time hunting and hawking with his dear friend, the King ... he is not the man for the Church. A strange choice indeed for such a post.”

“I want it,” said Henry. “He will work for me. My Chancellor and my Archbishop. It is an excellent arrangement.”

“You hope to manipulate Becket.”

“He might attempt to manipulate me.”

“He will not succeed. No one would succeed in doing that.”

“Ah, you have confidence in me then?”

“Confidence in your determination to have your own way and brush aside all who attempt to stop you.”

“Then I will have my way in the Church.”

“And has he accepted?”

“He was persuaded at length by those prelates who were present. They knew my will and they wanted to please me. Thomas said he was uneasy and he told me privately that he would be deeply grieved if there was friction between us.”