“It’s her.” I grabbed Rachel’s arm. “Eleanor of Aquitaine.”
Rachel smiled indulgently. “Yes. Our new queen is a rare woman indeed,” Rachel whispered. “And next to her is Sister Hectare, the queen’s closest companion aside from Amaria, her former nurse.” Rachel’s eyes went soft as she watched the tiny nun. “Sister Hectare is a wise and kind woman.”
Hectare was the oldest person I’d ever seen. Rheumy eyes, a veined nose like a toucan’s beak, and wrinkled-parchment skin that draped from her face and neck like swags of melted wax. She looked as though she might keel over dead at any second. And yet, as Eleanor met with this guest or that, she often leaned in to consult with the old woman.
From the corner of my eye, I saw a tall, black-robed figure, a priest, enter and approach the queen. The genial chatter died away as he glided serenely forward to bow before the desk.
Chapter 24
“SO KIND OF YOU TO FINALLY JOIN US, THOMAS.” The queen’s voice was throaty and rich as she spoke in the imperious French of the nobility. “Sister Hectare, isn’t it thoughtful of Thomas to take time out of his very busy day to answer a summons from his queen?”
The priest spoke from a low bow. “My apologies, Your Grace. I was with His Grace, the king.”
“Naturally.” Eleanor sounded amused, though I thought I could hear strain beneath the courtly manners. “You’ve kept my Henry much occupied since our arrival. I do believe the two of you have become thick as thieves.”
The priest started to murmur a reply, but Eleanor stood, interrupting him. “Of course, before we came to England, I was His Grace’s closest companion.”
Standing, Eleanor of Aquitaine was taller than most of the women. She was still swathed in a swirl of gossamer nightclothes, though it was nearly noon. Auburn waves frizzed down her back in the humid air, defying the rule that a married woman must cover her hair. White skin smoothed across sharp cheekbones and high, arched brows.
“Since His Grace the archbishop introduced you two,” Eleanor went on, “I’ve barely seen Henry. Do you not find that odd, Thomas? A queen who must make an appointment to see her own husband?”
I sucked in a breath. I knew the priest now.
“No way,” I whispered incredulously, forgetting my medieval speech for a moment. “That’s Thomas à Becket.”
Rachel looked at me sidelong from beneath her dark lashes, hesitating only an instant before her eyes flicked back toward the priest. Her delicate nostrils flared. A look of loathing passed over her usually placid features as she stared at the man who was murmuring smooth apologies to his queen. “Yes,” she said. “That is he, indeed.” She bit off the name. “Becket.”
I could only stare at the infamous priest. Thomas à Becket. Soon to be Henry’s chancellor, then archbishop of Canterbury. The person who inserted himself between Henry and Eleanor, causing a rift that widened through time until it ended in a devastating war between Henry and his sons. In less than ten years, Henry and Thomas would turn on each other too. A battle of church against state would begin, ending only when Henry inadvertently caused Thomas’s murder inside Canterbury Cathedral. A deed still spoken of a thousand years later as one of the most notorious crimes in history.
Thomas à Becket. One of the most powerful men in England. Or at least he soon would be.
“He despises my people, you know,” Rachel confessed under her breath, barely contained fury in her voice. “Becket had my cousin arrested a few weeks ago on a false charge.” Her arms contracted around her slim body. “Horse theft, they claimed. His wife, Anna, was in childbirth, and he was trying to get home to her when his own mount went lame. The Christian family who loaned him their horse wished to testify on his behalf, but Becket threatened them somehow.” Her voice lowered to a hiss. “Abram died in prison two weeks later. Head injury. They claim it an accident, but we all know the truth.”
I glanced back at the clergyman’s aesthetic features. Nothing I’d ever read about Becket implied that kind of cruelty. Just went to show you how wrong the history books could be.
I touched her arm in sympathy. “Rachel, I’m so sor—”
“Shhh.” Rachel began fumbling in the basket hanging from her arm as a wimpled servant appeared before us, carrying a steaming silver goblet.
Removing a twist of burlap from the smallest satchel at her belt, Rachel untied the piece of twine and—with practiced movements—tapped in a few grains of reddish powder. She took the cup from the servant and swirled the contents. When my new friend went to pass the goblet back, the sour older woman hesitated, as if she didn’t want to touch anything Rachel had handled. Sneering, she reluctantly reached out.