Dangerous Women. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин
The herald said Richard’s name and he sprang forward. They were proclaiming him Duke of Aquitaine. He would marry the daughter of the French king, Alais. Nora’s eyes turned again toward the strange girl among the French. That was Alais. She had long brown hair and a sharp little nose; she was staring intently at Richard. Nora wondered what it felt like, looking for the first time on the man you knew you would marry. She imagined Alais kissing Richard and made a face.
In front of her, sitting stiff on her chair, the Queen pulled her mouth down at the corners. Her mother didn’t like this, either.
Until she was old enough to marry Richard, Alais would live with them, his family. Nora felt a stir of unease: here was Alais come into a strange place, as Mattie was gone off into a strange place, and they would never see her again. She remembered how Mattie had cried when they told her. But Mama, he’s so old. Nora pressed her lips together, her eyes stinging.
Not to her. This wouldn’t happen to her. She wouldn’t be sent away. Given away. She wanted something else, but she didn’t know what. She had thought of being a nun, but there was so little to do.
Richard knelt and put his hands between the long, bony hands of the King of France, and rose, his head tipped forward as if he already wore a coronet. He was smiling wide as the sun. He moved back to the family and the herald spoke Geoffrey’s name, who was now to be Duke of Brittany, and marry some other stranger.
Nora hunched her shoulders. This glory would never come to her, she would get nothing, just stand and watch. She glanced again at the Princess Alais and saw her looking down at her hands, sad.
Johanna suddenly yawned, pulled her hand out of Nora’s, and sat down.
Now up before them all came somebody else, his hands wide, and a big, strong voice said, “My lord of England, as we have agreed, I ask you now to receive the Archbishop of Canterbury, and let you be restored to friendship, end the quarrel between you, for the good of both our kingdoms, and Holy Mother Church.”
The crowd around them gave up a sudden yell, and a man came up the field toward the kings. He wore a long black cloak over a white habit with a cross hanging on his chest. The stick in his hand had a swirly top. A great cry went up from the people around them, excited. Behind her, somebody murmured, “Becket again. The man won’t go away.”
She knew this name, but she could not remember who Becket was. He paced up toward them, a long, gaunt man, his clothes shabby. He looked like an ordinary man but he walked like a lord. Everybody watched him. As he came up before her father, the crowd’s rumbling and stirring died away into a breathless hush. In front of the King, the gaunt man knelt, set his stick down, and then lay on the ground, spreading himself like a mat upon the floor. Nora shifted a little so she could see him through the space between her mother and her father. The crowd drew in closer, leaning out to see.
“My gracious lord,” he said in a churchy voice, “I beg your forgiveness for all my errors. Never was a prince more faithful than you, and never a subject more faithless than I, and I am come asking pardon not from hopes of my virtue but of yours.”
Her father stood up. He looked suddenly very happy, his face flushed, his eyes bright. Face to the ground, the gaunt man spoke on, humble, beseeching, and the King went down toward him, reaching out his hands to lift him up.
Then Becket said, “I submit myself to you, my lord, henceforth and forever, in all things, save the honor of God.”
The Queen’s head snapped up. Behind Nora somebody gasped, and somebody else muttered, “Damn fool.” In front of them all, halfway to Becket, his hands out, Papa stopped. A kind of pulse went through the crowd.
The King said sharply, “What is this?”
Becket was rising. Dirt smeared his robe where his knees had pressed the ground. He stood straight, his head back. “I cannot give up the rights of God, my lord, but in everything else—”
Her Papa lunged at him. “This is not what I agreed to.”
Becket held his ground, tall as a steeple, as if he had God on his shoulder, and proclaimed again, “I must champion the honor of the Lord of Heaven and earth.”
“I am your Lord!” The King wasn’t happy anymore. His voice boomed across the field. Nobody else moved or spoke. He took a step toward Becket, and his fist clenched. “The kingdom is mine. No other authority shall rule there! God or no, kneel, Thomas, give yourself wholly to me, or go away a ruined man!”
Louis was scurrying down from the dais toward them, his frantic murmuring unheeded. Becket stood immobile. “I am consecrated to God. I cannot wash away that duty.”
Nora’s father roared, “I am King, and no other, you toad, you jackass, no other than me! You owe everything to me! Me!”
“Papa! My lord—” Boy Henry started forward and their mother reached out and grabbed his arm and held him still. From the crowd, other voices rose. Nora stooped and tried to make Johanna stand up.
“I won’t be disparaged! Honor me, and me alone!” Her father’s voice was like a blaring horn, and the crowd fell quiet again. The King of France put one hand on her Papa’s arm and mouthed something, and Papa wheeled around and cast off his touch.
“Henceforth, whatever comes that he chooses not to abide, he will call it the Honor of God. You must see this! He has given up nothing; he will pay me no respect—not even the respect of a swine for the swineherd!”
The crowd gave a yell. A voice called, “God bless the King!” Nora looked around, uneasy. The people behind her were shuffling around, drawing back, like running away slowly. Eleanor was still holding fast to Boy Henry, but now he whimpered under his breath. Richard was stiff, his whole body tipped forward, his jaw jutting like a fish’s. The French king had Becket by the sleeve, was drawing him off, talking urgently into his ear. Becket’s gaze never left Nora’s father. His voice rang out like the archangel’s trumpet.
“I am bound to the Honor of God!”
In the middle of them all, Nora’s father flung up his arms as if he would take flight; he stamped his foot as if he would split the earth, and shouted, “Get him out of here before I kill him! God’s Honor! God’s round white backside! Get him away, get him gone!”
His rage blew back the crowd. In a sudden rush of feet, the French king and his guards and attendants bundled Thomas away. Nora’s father was roaring again, oaths and threats, his arms pumping, his face red as raw meat. Boy Henry burst out of Eleanor’s grasp and charged him.
“My lord—”
The King spun around toward him, his arm outstretched, and knocked him down with the back of his hand. “Stay out of this!”
Nora jumped. Even before Richard and Geoffrey started forward, Eleanor was moving; she reached Boy Henry in a few strides, and as he leapt to his feet, she hurried him off. A crowd of her retainers bustled after her.
Nora stood fast. She realized that she was holding her breath. Johanna had finally gotten up and wrapped her arms around Nora’s waist, and Nora put her arms around her sister. Geoffrey was running after the Queen; Richard paused, his hands at his sides, watching the King’s temper blaze. He pivoted and ran off after his mother. Nora gasped. She and Johanna were alone, in the middle of the field, the crowd far off.
The King saw them. He quieted. He looked around, saw no one else, and stalked toward them.
“Go on—run! Everybody else is abandoning me. Run! Are you stupid?”
Johanna shrank around behind Nora, who stood straight and tucked her hands behind her, the way she stood when priests talked to her. “No, Papa.”
His face was red as meat. Fine sweat stood on his forehead. His breath almost made her gag. He looked her over and said, “Here to scold me, then, like your rotten mother?”
“No, Papa,” she said, surprised. “You are the King.”
He twitched. The