“That what the Bishop had said was what he had commanded him to, and he hoped his humble penance would be acceptable to God and the dead Archbishop. He said he had paid for lights to be set up at the tomb of the martyr and to be kept burning there. He had ordered that a hospital be built in honor of God and the blessed martyr. The Bishop then said that he would help with the building of the hospital and grant indulgences to all those who contributed to it. He himself should be joining in the King’s penance, for he had said when the body of the martyr lay on the stones of the cathedral that it should be thrown into a dunghill or hung on a gibbet. Greatly he regretted that and repented of it.”

“The old hypocrite!” I cried. “He certainly should have bared his back to the rod. What else did you glean, Amaria?”

“That the King went into the crypt, removed his top garments and knelt by the tomb, and each of the monks in the convent took a whip and struck the King three blows saying, ‘As thy Redeemer was scourged for the sin of man, so be thou scourged for thy own sin.’ The King then prayed to Thomas Becket and went around the cathedral stopping at the shrine to say prayers and ask forgiveness for his sins. He stayed there all day and the next night.”

“He would do it thoroughly,” I said.

“The next day he heard Mass and drank holy water which contained a drop of Thomas’s blood which they had saved while he lay bleeding on the stones. Then the King left Canterbury.”

I could imagine him. The tiresome business had had to be enacted; he had had to humble himself; but he had not really done that. He would never humble himself. Any who thought he would must be mistaken. He had had to perform this unpleasant task, so with his usual energy he had performed it ... thoroughly and efficiently. From now on the matter of Becket’s murder was over for him.

Amaria, free to go where she liked, was often in the town; she talked to the guards; she was a mine of information. Naturally curious and interested in people, she quickly understood that one of the hardest things I had to bear was being cut off from events. I believed she had an affection for me and was eager to please me, so she made this gleaning of information her greatest task and pleasure.

Soon after she had so graphically described Henry’s penance, she came in with the news that the Scottish King, who had been making trouble, had been captured and made a prisoner at Alnwick. It had happened while Henry was doing his penance.

After his ordeal he had retired to bed. He spent a day there. He must have been feeling very weak to do that. I expected the monks had laid on rather hard with their whips. It must have been an opportunity too good to be missed. I wished I had been one of them. I would have given him a few sharp strokes.

The news of the Scottish King’s capture was brought to him while he was in bed.

“They say, my lady, that he leaped out of bed,” was Amaria’s version. “He said it was a sign from Heaven ... from Thomas Becket up there. ‘We are friends once more,’ cried the King. ‘Now you will work for me. I shall go from victory to victory. We shall be friends as we were in the beginning.’”

I laughed. Amaria amused me. But I think it must have happened something like that. Henry used everything to advantage. Did he really believe that the capture of the King of Scotland was due to Becket’s help? One thing he would know was that the people would think so; and that would be important to Henry. What a combination—Thomas in Heaven, Henry on Earth. They would be invincible.

I knew he would be smiling to himself. The humiliation of walking barefoot, the sore back, the humble confession of guilt ... it was all worthwhile. Now the people would believe that Henry was at peace with Heaven, and Thomas was on his side. Let his enemies beware.

I was moved from Salisbury to Winchester, where life was a little easier. I lived in comparative comfort. Of course I missed the fine clothes which I had always had in abundance; I missed my musicians and my Court of Poitiers.

My jailer for a while was Ranulf de Glanville, which showed how important I was to the King, for he was one of his most trusted subjects. He was the Chief Justiciar of England and a man of many gifts. He was Sheriff of Lancashire and during the recent Scottish invasion had led the men of Lancashire into the attack which had resulted in the capture of the King of Scotland. It was Ranulf who had taken the news to the King. He had Henry’s complete trust. I did not believe I would get any concessions from him.

Another of my jailers was William FitzStephen, who was to write a biography of Becket, with whom he had been in close contact for ten years. During the time of his intimacy with Becket, Henry must have come to know FitzStephen very well. He had been a subdeacon in Becket’s chapel and entrusted with special duties.

I viewed Henry’s choice of jailers with mixed feelings. In the first place, I felt it a mark of respect for me that he would not give the post to any but those he trusted absolutely; but secondly it meant that my chances of escape were slight—or, more accurately, nonexistent.

I had been in England over a year when I had a visitor, a Cardinal who had come to England and found himself drawn into a matter which Henry was considering.

He was very suave, friendly and compassionate.

“My lady,” he said, “how different this life must be from that to which you have been accustomed in the past.” I could agree with him on that. “I know you have always been interested in the Abbey of Fontevrault.”

“Yes,” I said, now very alert.

“How would you feel about going there and living a life of peace?”

“I have never thought I was suited to the cloistered existence. It is not in my nature to be.”

“But here you are ... cloistered. You are a prisoner. There you would be free.”

“Has the King sent you here?”

He lowered his eyes. “The King has suggested that I visit you.”

“With a purpose in mind, I see. To get rid of me by sending me to Fontevrault. I retire ... and my retirement means that a divorce can be arranged for the King. Is that it? There is no need to mince words with me, Cardinal.”

“My lady, the King thinks of your welfare.”

“Not forgetting his own.”

“It seems this would be beneficial to you both. You are ...” He hesitated. “ ... my lady, you are no longer young.”

“I am fifty-three years of age. Time, you suggest, for me to retire from the world?”

“You would find a life of meditation and prayer most satisfactory.”

“And if I took to it, so would Henry. A divorce would be easy, would it not? A wife who has retired from the world is as good as dead. And a divorce? Does he plan to marry again? Whom would he marry? His mistress, Rosamund Clifford? He lives with her openly now, does he not? Does he plan to have sons by her and replace my sons? I would never agree to that.”

“All the King wishes is to give you a life of peace where you can meditate on the past and earn remission of your sins.”

“He would do well to behave in like manner.”

“None of us is without sin, my lady.”

“And some are more overburdened by it than others. Let us be plain about this. I will not go to Fontevrault Abbey.”

“You would be Abbess of course ... mistress of your world ... the ruler of the abbey as you have been of the duchy.”

I laughed. “You are trying to tempt me, Cardinal. The King has sent you and paid you well for it, I doubt not. You have come here to get my consent to go into a nunnery, giving him reasons for divorce, so making him free to take a new wife and get more sons ... those whom he would mold to his way of thinking, unlike those who love their mother well and hate their father. Does he really think to marry Rosamund Clifford? It is impossible! But then he is a man who refuses to see anything as impossible. You will have to go back to the King and tell him no, no, no. I will not be forced into a convent ... even Fontevrault. I will stay here, his prisoner, to plague him, a barrier between him and his fair Rosamund. Go back to him and tell him that he will have to think of another way of ridding himself of me.”

When he had gone, I found myself thinking of Fontevrault.

I might be fifty-three years old but I was not yet at that stage when I wished to think of the life to come. I believed I had a few more years ahead of me, and something told me that I should not be a prisoner forever. I would not shut myself away from the world. I wanted to know what my boys were doing. Henry, too. He must think that I saw no release in sight and might as well shut myself away in Fontevrault where I should at least have the dignity of ruling my own little world. He did not realize that I should never give up and that my spirit was as indomitable as his.

Moreover, following his exploits, hating him fiercely, was a rather enjoyable occupation.

A year passed uneventfully for me. I heard that there had been a reconciliation between the King and young Henry. My son had been with the King of France; there he had raged against his father for imprisoning me and saying that he would like to do the same to him.

I was afraid that he swayed this way and that, wondering which way would be to his advantage. What he wanted more than anything, I was sure, was the crown of England; and Louis could not give him that. I often wondered how differently everything would have turned out if Henry had not made that vital mistake of crowning his son King while he lived.

Young Henry eventually decided that his father had more to offer than Louis and he went to him at Bures and fell on his knees before him—the prodigal son returned to the bosom of his family, having seen the error of his ways, and begging for forgiveness.