Devil's brood eoa-3

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Henry gave him an odd look, one that Ranulf could not interpret. “Canterbury,” he said, and walked away without waiting for a response.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  July 1174

  Westminster Palace, England

  Ranulf and Willem were admitted to the king’s antechamber, but when they asked to see Henry, they had to wait while his chamberlain got permission for their entry. He soon emerged from the royal bedchamber, but not with the word they wanted. He was sorry, he reported, the king had retired for the night. Although they doubted that, they had no choice but to withdraw. Outside in the gardens, they paused to review their options.

  “What now?” Willem sounded disheartened, and Ranulf couldn’t blame him. Since leaving Southampton, they’d tried repeatedly to talk with Henry about his intent to do penance at Becket’s tomb, to no avail. They’d initially been disquieted by his plan simply because it seemed so wildly out of character for him. But they’d soon had other reasons for concern. He’d been fasting on bread and water while pushing his body to the utmost, riding as if racing his troubles, and they’d begun watching him with the alarm of men trying to catch up with a runaway wagon.

  “I do not know,” Ranulf admitted. “There is not much we can do, is there? No man can be forced to share what is in his heart, least of all a king.”

  Willem acknowledged the truth of that by bidding Ranulf good night. “You’d best get some sleep,” he warned, “for he will want to depart at first light.”

  Ranulf remained in the gardens after Willem went off to find a bed for the night. Although he was only fifteen years Henry’s senior, he’d always had a fatherly, protective love for his sister’s son, and he felt that he was somehow letting Henry down in his time of greatest need. The rain had stopped and the air was cool. He had just seated himself upon a wooden bench when he saw the Bishop of London and his attendants coming toward him. Rising, he greeted Gilbert Foliot courteously, but he felt obligated to advise the bishop that if he hoped to see the king that evening, he would be disappointed.

  Gilbert blinked in surprise. “But the king summoned me, sending a messenger to tell me that he’d arrived at Westminster and wanted to see me straightaway.”

  Ranulf apologized and then, on impulse, fell in step beside the bishop. In the antechamber, the chamberlain had obviously been briefed, for he ushered the bishop into Henry’s bedchamber without first announcing him. Figuring he had nothing to lose, Ranulf entered with Gilbert. Henry was still dressed, although he’d removed his boots. He gave Ranulf a sharp glance, but he did not order him from the chamber, and Ranulf took that as tacit permission to remain.

  Interrupting the bishop’s pleased speech of welcome, Henry said bluntly, “I have need of your aid, my lord bishop. On the morrow I am going to Canterbury to do penance for my part in the archbishop’s death. I would like you to accompany me, and speak on my behalf to the monks of Christ Church priory.”

  “My liege, I would be honored!” Gilbert’s eyes shone; he seemed about to embrace Henry before thinking better of it; the fact that Henry had called him by his title rather than the more intimate “Gilbert” indicated the king’s wish to observe the formalities this night, and Gilbert was shrewd enough to catch it. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

  “Good. We shall be departing at dawn, so it might be easier for you if you spend the night at the palace. My chamberlain will see to your needs.”

  Gilbert seemed reluctant to leave, obviously eager to discuss Henry’s spiritual epiphany, but he’d been dismissed. Murmuring his good wishes, he withdrew, leaving Henry alone in the chamber with his uncle. Ranulf was expecting to be dismissed, too, but it did not come. “Where are your squires?” he asked, not sure how to ease into such an intrusive conversation, for what could be more meddlesome than an inquiry into the state of a man’s soul?

  “I sent them off to the hall to eat,” Henry said, inadvertently giving Ranulf the opening he sought.

  “Are you still fasting?” Getting a brief nod, he said carefully, “Would it not be better to wait until you reach Canterbury ere you fast? If you deprive yourself too severely, you risk becoming ill.”

  “I thought the purpose of penance was to mortify the flesh,” Henry said, with a twisted smile. “Have you forgotten that Thomas not only wore a hairshirt and braies infested with vermin, but he subjected himself to a daily scourging? Do you think he’d be impressed just because I missed a few meals?”

  “Is that what you want, Harry…to impress Thomas?”

  “I want…” Henry began, but then he stopped, and shook his head, like a man weary of talking. After a few moments of silence, he said, “Did you notice that Gilbert asked no questions? Nor did he assure me there was no need for such a pilgrimage. It would seem that he considers my penance at Avranches as flawed as Roger does.”

  “Why does Roger think that?” Ranulf asked, even though he already knew the answer.

  “My cousin, the esteemed Bishop of Worcester, thinks that the Almighty has looked into my heart and found that I repented of Thomas’s death for all the wrong reasons.”

  “And what do you think?”

  Henry’s shoulders twitched, in what was almost a shrug. He’d dropped down into a window-seat, and Ranulf crossed the chamber, knelt in the floor rushes by his side. “Harry, are you sure you want to do this?”

  Henry rubbed his fingers against his aching temples. “I suppose I could wait for more explicit signs of divine displeasure, wait until the Thames turns to blood or a plague of locusts comes up and covers the land.”

  “You are not Pharaoh.”

  Henry raised his head, looking Ranulf full in the face for the first time. “Can you honestly tell me, Uncle, that you have not wondered if this rebellion was God’s punishment for Thomas Becket’s murder? If not, you are most likely the only one in Christendom who has not entertained that thought.”

  “What I think does not matter. Nor does it matter what Roger or Gilbert Foliot think. We are not the ones who must do public penance at Canterbury Cathedral.” Reaching out, Ranulf put his hand on Henry’s arm. “You are a proud man. You are a king. I know that we are told there is no greater glory than to humble ourselves before the Almighty. But that is easier for some than others. If, as I suspect, you mean to abase yourself utterly in atonement, you must be sure that this is what you truly want to do. Otherwise, I fear you will not gain what you seek-peace of mind.”

  “‘Peace of mind’?” Henry echoed and then laughed harshly. “I have a greater need than that, Uncle. I mean to ask the Almighty and the sainted Thomas to save my kingdom. Not just for my sake, for all our sakes. The vultures are already gathering, and God help him, but Hal will not be able to fend them off. He’ll be a king in name only, whilst the Count of Flanders and the French king and the Scots king carve up my domains like a Michaelmas goose. You think the people suffered under Stephen? That will look like a golden age in comparison to the misery and anarchy that would follow my defeat.”

  Ranulf could not argue with that bleak assessment of Hal’s kingship. He knew that men made pilgrimages for a multitude of reasons, both pure and profane. Some were reluctant penitents, ordered to it by an imperious bishop, an irate priest. Some sought God’s Mercy for a loved one, a frail child, an ailing wife. Some saw pilgrimage as a way to honor God. Others were driven by guilty consciences, memories of past sins. He did not doubt that those who humbled themselves of their own free will, those who asked no specific boons in return for their suffering were the ones who came away from a pilgrimage with that “peace of mind” his nephew dismissed so disdainfully. What would Harry do if he submitted to this ordeal and nothing changed? If the victory he’d prayed for was denied him? What does a man do when he acts out of desperation and despair and even that is not enough?

  “I will entreat the Almighty,” he said softly, “to hear your prayers.” And he tried not to think of a conversation he’d once had with his other nephew. Roger had assured him that God always
answered prayers. But sometimes He said no.

  On Friday, July 12, Henry and his companions were approaching the town of Canterbury. As they neared the lazar-house of St Nicholas in Harbledown, they had their first glimpse of the cathedral in the distance. Henry dismounted, and the hospital’s master came hurrying out to meet him. Several of the lepers emerged from their wattle-and-daub huts, but they kept their distance. They were clad in long russet robes and scapulars, the ravages of their disease hidden by hoods for the men and thick, double veils for the women. Henry greeted the master and then accompanied him into the chapel to pray. After some hesitation, the Bishops of London, Winchester, and Rochester dismounted and followed, too. Most of the men remained on their horses, though, for even the bravest of knights was leery of entering a lazar-house.

  Henry and the bishops soon emerged, and after he told the priest that he was granting the hospital twenty silver marks a year, to be paid out of royal revenues, the master thanked him profusely, promising that the lepers would offer up daily prayers on his behalf. If anyone thought that those poor souls needed prayers more than the king did, it remained unspoken. When Henry returned to the others, he did not remount, and seeing that he meant to walk the rest of the way, his men made haste to dismount, too.

  They’d covered about half a mile when they saw the Westgate looming ahead. Henry headed not for the gate, though, but for the church of St Dunstan’s by the side of the road. His squires scurried after him. The other men waited, puzzled, and when the flustered parish priest arrived, none of them had any answers for him. They could see a crowd gathering just inside the Westgate, but the church bells that would normally peal out the king’s arrival were silent, for Henry had sent word that he wanted no royal ceremony.

  It had been raining lightly since mid-morning, but as they waited for Henry to emerge from the church, the heavens opened and Canterbury was engulfed in a summer downpour. When Henry finally appeared, they saw that he’d stripped to his shirt and chausses and removed his boots. One of his squires was holding out the green wool cape that he wore when hunting, and the boy looked dismayed as Henry waved him away.

  “He’s going to cut his feet to ribbons by the time he reaches the cathedral,” Willem muttered to Ranulf, who was more concerned at the moment with Henry’s intention to brave the rainstorm clad only in his shirt. Striding forward, he spoke briefly with his nephew, and to the relief of the spectators, Henry reluctantly agreed to don the green cape. As he set out, the bishops and knights fell in behind him, but Willem delayed long enough to ask Ranulf how he’d convinced Henry to wear the cloak.

  “I told him,” Ranulf said, “that if he caught a fatal chill in the rain and died at Canterbury, all of Christendom would conclude that his sins had been too great for St Thomas to forgive.”

  Willem looked at him, not knowing what to say. Ranulf had moved on, and he hastened to catch up, even though he was dreading what was coming as he’d never dreaded anything in his life before.

  Escorted by the city reeve and aldermen, Henry passed through the Westgate and entered the town. As he walked along St Peter’s Street, his feet were soon cut and bleeding, but the rain washed his bloody footprints away. People lined both sides of the street, heedless of the weather, for they knew they were witnesses to a spectacle that none would ever forget-the sight of a highborn king, God’s Anointed, offering up his pride to make peace with their saint.

  Thomas Becket had not been universally loved, even in his own city, but he’d always been revered by Christ’s Poor, and they turned out now in large numbers. The town’s merchants were quick to recognize what a blessing Henry was conferring upon them, for once word got out that the English king had prostrated himself before the Blessed Martyr, Canterbury’s shrine would become the most popular pilgrimage in all of Christendom. But their enthusiasm was tempered with uncertainty, for they did not know what was expected of them. Should they cheer the king for submitting to St Thomas? Or jeer him for his part in the Martyrdom? The result was that, for the first time within memory, a king passed by in utter silence, even the children and beggars watching in awed stillness.

  If Henry’s bloodied bare feet were giving him pain, he did not show it. Nor did he seem to feel the drenching rain or take notice of the crowds. Followed by the bishops and his knights, he continued on past the churches of All Saints and St Helen’s, past the king’s mill, the guildhall, and the pillory. St Peter’s Street had become High Street when he halted momentarily, then turned into Mercery Lane, a passageway so narrow that more than two men could not walk abreast. Ahead he could see the monks waiting by the cemetery gate. The new archbishop was still absent, having gone to Rome to get papal approval of his election, but Henry recognized Odo, the prior, and Walter, the abbot of Boxley Abbey. In the past, he’d been welcomed by the chiming of the cathedral bells and the chanting of Lauds by the choir. Now there was only the same eerie quiet that had settled over the city.

  They came forth to offer a solemn, subdued greeting, and quickly ushered him into the cathedral precincts, escorting him along the path through the cemetery for laypeople. The storm had turned it into a morass, and Henry’s feet and legs were soon caked with mud. He could think of few sights more desolate than a graveyard in the rain. The rest of the monks were waiting in the cathedral. He could see curiosity and anxiety and excitement on their faces, but little overt hostility. Oddly enough, Thomas had not been that popular with his own monks, had been feuding with Prior Odo at the time of his murder. It was only the discovery of his hairshirt and whip-scarred back that had awakened them to the realization that they’d had a saint in their midst.

  “Show me,” Henry said, and they knew at once what he meant. Holding a candle aloft, Prior Odo led the way up the nave toward the northwest transept. A small altar had been set up on the spot, and candle flames glimmered on something silvery. “What is that?”

  “Those are fragments of the sword of Richard le Bret,” the prior said, striving to sound matter-of-fact and almost accomplishing it. Another monk behind him, an anonymous voice in the shadows, volunteered that he was the knight who delivered the deathblow, striking with such force that he split the archbishop’s skull and broke his blade upon the tiles.

  This unknown informant did not repeat what the knight had cried as he stood over the archbishop’s body. Take that for the love of my Lord William, the king’s brother! There was no need, for Henry and every man in the cathedral knew what had been said. Thomas had refused to grant William a dispensation to wed Isabella de Warenne, and when the twenty-seven-year-old William died suddenly soon afterward, his friends had contended that he’d died of a broken heart. Henry had blamed Becket, too, for Will’s death, but as he gazed at the pieces of that broken sword, it seemed so long ago to him, part of another man’s life. Kneeling, he prayed earnestly to God for forgiveness, and then leaned over and kissed the ground where Thomas died.

  Rising to his feet, he looked over at the prior. “I would like to see his tomb now.”

  “Of course, my liege. The stairway to the crypt is right behind you.”

  With the prior again leading the way, they all descended to the cathedral undercroft. It was deep in shadows, and Henry’s eyes had to adjust before he could make out the outlines of the archbishop’s tomb. A wall had been built around the sarcophagus, rising a foot above the coffin, covered by a large marble slab. In each side of the wall two windows had been cut so that pilgrims could lean inside and kiss the coffin. Henry knelt again and began to pray.

  The Bishop of London stepped forward to join Henry beside the tomb. “It is my honor to speak on behalf of the lord king. He orders me to declare his unreserved confession on his behalf, which I and others have heard in private. He declares before God and before the martyr that he did not cause St Thomas to be slain, but freely admits that he did use such words as were the cause of his being murdered. He begs the saint to forgive his offense, and he agrees to return all her holdings to this holy church. He has already pledged
to give the cathedral the sum of thirty pounds each year, and he now adds an additional ten pounds per annum, so that candles may always be kept lit at the archbishop’s shrine. He asks you to pray to the true martyr lying here, beseeching him to lay aside all anger. The king has come here to make atonement.”

  When Gilbert was done speaking, Henry gave him an approving nod. “Thank you, my lord bishop.” Turning back toward the monks, he said, “I hereby affirm all that the Bishop of London has said. I ask now for your forgiveness.”

  Prior Odo smiled. “Gladly, my lord king, gladly.” And embracing Henry, he gave him the kiss of peace while many of the monks applauded.

  There was a lessening of tension after that, as most of the men assumed the worst was over. As Henry’s eyes moved from face to face, he saw that only two knew what was coming, Gilbert Foliot, who’d been forewarned, and Ranulf, who sometimes seemed gifted with second-sight. “I regret the Blessed Martyr’s death more than words can ever say. But actions speak louder than words. It is for that reason that I restore to the cathedral and priory all of their rights and privileges. It is my pleasure to offer to St Thomas four marks of pure gold, a silk pall, and forty librates of land in Kent. I have asked the prior to send for the archbishop’s sister so that I may make amends to her as well, and I pledge to found an abbey in honor of the archbishop. And now…so that there may be no doubts as to the sincerity of my repentance, I willingly submit to the punishment I deserve for my part in this tragedy and ask that I be scourged for my sins.” With that, he unfastened his cloak and removed his shirt.

  As they realized what he intended to do, a loud murmur swept through the spectators, expressions of shock and distress and satisfaction all mingling as one, like a river fed by smaller streams. Ignoring these ripples, Henry glanced from the bishop to the prior. “I would have each of the bishops and Abbot Walter give five lashes and then three from each one of the Christchurch monks.”