At length he grew calmer. He stood up and, after kicking viciously at the legs of the table sat down heavily and stared into space.

“He’ll go to Louis,” I said. He nodded.

“And Louis,” I went on, “will make much of him.”

“Oh yes, indeed he will. He’ll do anything to make trouble for me. He will be laughing at this. These two good men of the Church will put their pious heads together. I can see that. I must write to Louis without delay. I must tell him my side of the story. I shall demand that Becket be sent back to me. What right has Louis to keep a subject of mine?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “If he is there and Louis allows him to stay, he will,” I said.

“Oh yes, yes, he’ll be there ... with his tales of the wickedness of the King of England.”

“I daresay he will tell what actually happened.”

Henry sent for writing materials. I saw what he wrote.

“Thomas, who was my Archbishop of Canterbury, has been judged in a court of a company of lords, a traitor against me. I beg you not to allow this guilty man to remain in your kingdom. Let not this enemy of mine have help from you, as I would never give to any of your enemies ...”

Becket had gone but could not be dismissed. Henry would sit glaring before him and I knew he was wondering: Where is Becket now? What is he doing?

We left Northampton and traveled by degrees to Marlborough where we were to spend Christmas. I guessed that it would not be a very merry one, haunted, as I was sure it would be, by the ghost of Becket. We were already at Marlborough when messengers returned from France. They brought no reply from Louis but did report on the manner in which he had received Henry’s information.

Louis had read the letter with some amazement and all he had said was: “The King of England states that Thomas Becket was his Archbishop. Has he been deposed then?” The messenger had not known how to reply to that, for in truth Becket had not been deposed. “It must be by the King of England,” Louis replied. “I can think of no other. I am also a king but I do not have the power to depose the humblest cleric in my country.”

The messengers reported that Louis had then said to the papal representative, who happened to be present: “Pray tell my lord Pope Alexander that I hope he will receive the Archbishop of Canterbury in friendship. I fear that unjust accusations have been made against him which must be ignored.”

It was obvious whose side he had been on. It was no surprise. For all their show of friendship in the past, and the fact that Louis’s daughter was married to Henry’s son, they were enemies and, I feared, always would be.

The return of the messengers brought on another of Henry’s rages, which were becoming more and more frequent—and it was all due to Becket. That man was the most important person in his life and always would be until the death of one of them.

He turned to me. There was a certain bewilderment about him, as though he were asking me where he had gone wrong. I felt pity for him and a slight return of the affection I had once had for him. Over that Christmas we were together again—not as we had been in the beginning, but Henry was a very sensual man and he did gain comfort from physical contact.

Our children made a bond between us. Henry’s eyes would grow acquisitive as he discussed them. Through them he intended to govern the whole of France. Young Henry would be King of France one day. He had plans for Richard—another daughter of the King of France, young Alais—just to be on the safe side. Geoffrey? Well, there might be a marriage into Brittany for him. The whole of France would fall into Plantagenet hands. He was also thinking of our daughter, Matilda. She was eight years old now. Quite young, but it was not too soon to look around for her.

Then to my great dismay I found that I was once more pregnant. I had thought to be done with childbearing. I was nearly forty-three years old, and that was surely an age when I could expect to have a rest from the wearisome business. True, I was well preserved. I had always taken the utmost care of my appearance, and when a woman looks younger than her years she usually is. But there was no denying the facts: I was too old to want this now and in any case we had a good family—three boys and two girls; and I had had two by Louis before I began to breed Plantagenets.

However, what was, must be and I had to endure it, so I gave myself up to the contemplation of my daughter Matilda.

She was very dear to me—as all my children were, but Matilda had been my constant companion since her birth, and although we were very different in character—she was of a gentle nature, quiet and retiring—we were very close.

Henry, ever aware of the advancement of his family, had been putting out feelers for some time and he was delighted with the response he had had from Henry, Duke of Saxony and Bavaria, known through Europe as “Henry the Lion,” because he had proved bold and fearless.

I said: “He is a little old for Matilda, is he not?”

“What does age matter?” demanded Henry. “You are eleven years older than I. People shook their heads over that, did they not? And look at our fine brood.”

“Matilda is not yet nine years old. He is thirty-six. It is rather a lot.”

“I want this alliance,” said Henry. “A mature man will be best for Matilda. She is quiet and gentle. He will understand her better than a young man could.”

I thought there might be some truth in that, and I found out all I could about the proposed suitor.

His father, another Henry, was known as “the Proud” and was descended from the Guelphs from the noble house of Este, and his mother had been Gertrude, the only daughter of the Emperor Lothair, Duke of Saxony. This meant that Henry was the heir to two dukedoms; but as his father died when he was ten years old, he had had to struggle for his inheritance. He had distinguished himself and earned the sobriquet of “Henry the Lion” at an early age, and in time he dealt with his enemies and proclaimed himself Duke of Saxony and Bavaria.

Some twenty years before, he had been married to Clementia, the daughter of the Duke of Thuringia. From this marriage there had been only one daughter. As usual this was a cause for complaint, and after seventeen years the marriage ended in divorce—on the usual grounds of consanguinity, of course.

Now here he was seeking the hand of our Matilda.

There was trouble, as usual, in France. My own Aquitaine was a source of anxiety. My people had never settled under Henry’s rule. It was not what they had been accustomed to. They did not like the discipline he tried to impose upon them; they wanted their old style of government, when handsome and romantic men rode out to settle their differences with panache, and filled the Courts with laughter and song. Consequently there was trouble, and Henry could not stay in one place for long.

The conflict with Becket had kept him in England for two years. It was time he crossed the sea to govern his other possessions.

I was to remain in England.

Before Henry left, we received the embassy from Henry the Lion. It was necessary that they be treated with the utmost respect. It was a most splendid company that arrived and we had to meet their grandeur with everything as fine ourselves. Royal unions were always costly, for each side had to outdo the other if that were possible and it ended in everyone’s being more extravagant than was wise.

There was inevitably trouble.

“It is a mercy that Becket is not here,” I said, “or this little matter would be blown up into a great one.”

This time it was about the controversy which was going on in papal circles. Henry had supported Pope Alexander while the Germans gave their allegiance to his rival, Paschal III. This meant that the clergy were not present to welcome the German embassy. It was indeed fortunate that Becket was not in England or there would certainly have been trouble. However, the priests, no doubt remembering Becket’s fate and not wishing to share a similar one, were determined not to offend the King, so they were particularly mild in their disapproval.

The necessary pledges were given, the contracts signed. I pleaded the wedding be postponed for say two years, when Matilda would be of a more suitable age. I had promised her I would insist on this and I was determined to fight Henry for the concession if need be.

He gave way. The relationship we had been enjoying since Christmas had softened him in that respect; he did see that his daughter was young to leave home—though, Heaven knew, many princesses had left at a much earlier age—and he did have some affection for his children. It was merely that he did not know how to show it.

However, I won the day and Matilda was to remain with me a little longer so that we could plan her trousseau at leisure and decide all she would want to take with her.

The child clung to me and told me she never wanted to leave me. That was gratifying, but it made me anxious about her. I soothed her and reminded her that it was the fate of all princesses to go away from their homes. “But that does not mean we shall not see each other,” I went on. “I shall come to see you. I am a great traveler, as you know. I am always on the move. I shall come to see how my Duchess of Saxony and Bavaria is faring.”

Henry left for Normandy in March. I now had to face the fact that several months of discomfort lay ahead of me. I was certainly not a stranger to childbearing, but I was getting rather old for it.

In the meantime I devoted myself to my children. Young Henry was getting a little proud of himself. He and Marguerite had their own establishment now, and he was convinced he was going to be King of France. Too much adulation came his way, and the King was now openly talking of having him crowned. That would be difficult, because the Kings of England were supposed to be crowned by the Archbishop of Canterbury. And where was the Archbishop of Canterbury? Everything seemed to come back to Becket.