The Lions' Torment

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  ‘You’ll never return to the familiares,’ Richard added, in English. ‘You’re a vassal, like me. But His Highness tells me more than he tells you. I wager you don’t yet know who the lady is who arrived with the Queen. She was at the welcome banquet, in the musicians’ enclosure.’

  Becket’s high colouring faded to clay. The Eagle was correct, he thought. I’m no more than a royal hound. A puppet whose strings the King controls. When he felt confident in the strength of his voice he said, ‘Thank you, quinny-licker. Your conversation is always informative.’ He dug his spurs into his horse and surged ahead of the Viscount and the escort of knights.

  William laughed. ‘Where’s the battle line? Who’s his enemy?’

  Richard felt his heart race. I shouldn’t have taunted him. I’ve aroused his hatred against the King. His breath caught in his chest.

  William glanced at him. ‘The blow to your mouth has upset you.’

  Richard, who had barely wept since his mother had thrown him into the street when he was six years old, sniffed back tears. ‘Forgive me,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been dishonourable. My spiteful words have stirred anger against my liege.’

  Ahead of them Becket muttered, ‘I shall overcome my love for Henry. And then I shall overcome him.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Everywhere winter’s snow melted and rivers tumbled in full spate to sweep away the detritus of the previous year. Oak forests shivered out a froth of pale green, while around their base wet black leaves layered the earth. Soon they would dry and become cities for crawling things. Creatures great and small – bears, wolves, foxes, field mice and frogs – reappeared, in silence, with barks or noisy chirruping. Birds that had turned into fish and hidden underwater during the months of cold winged singing into the sky. The earth, in her slow, voluptuous awakening, moved her limbs to allow flowers, grasses and young trees to clothe her nakedness.

  All the world was happy, except the Archbishop of Canterbury, who knew he could not last much longer. His darling, his protégé, the man he had raised from nothing to be archdeacon, whom he had cajoled the new young King to appoint England’s Chancellor, refused to return to comfort him with a word of affection, a touch of his hand, the lambent glow of his eyes. He was occupied on the other side of the Narrow Sea, ‘serving our King’.

  ‘Heartless! Heartless ingrate,’ Theobald moaned. ‘I regret I wrote to Henry on your behalf. I was no more than a ladder for your ambition. But you’re the best man for this job, as the angel says.’

  His attendant priests looked alarmed. ‘His mind wanders,’ they whispered.

  Theobald began to weep and spoke aloud. ‘You alone, Thomas, can control the English bishops and the monks of Canterbury. You have natural power. You can lash with your tongue. You can charm with your glances. You were born lowly, but born to lead. When I’m free from this vile body, it’s you who must husband Mother Church.’

  ‘Dear Father, please hush.’

  Suddenly he sat up, his eyes opened wide. ‘What angel is it? Its visage is black and terrifying,’ he wailed. After some time he collected himself. ‘Take a note,’ he murmured. ‘To our Archdeacon and Chancellor. The usual greetings. It is the will of heaven …’ He paused. ‘No. I won’t write to him. He doesn’t deserve it.’

  Becket arrived in Rouen to report on the success of his embassy. Henry made his pleasure known by hastily arranging a banquet to which he invited the most senior men of Normandy. He seated Thomas at his right hand. When the first dishes of spring game and vegetables had been served, he stood, motioning the guests to remain seated. ‘My honourable subjects, let me present to you the most successful diplomat in Europe, Sir Thomas Becket!’ He himself began the applause. The Chancellor turned to nod to his left and right.

  When the banquet was over, Becket said, ‘My liege, I ask leave to go on the first tide to England.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I wish to bid farewell to our beloved Archbishop. I hear he is not much longer for this world. His face is paralysed. He no longer talks – or rather, he does but cannot be understood.’

  Henry inclined his head to one side. ‘This is a sudden change of heart, Tom. You could have visited him at any time in the past two years. Why do you wait until he’s unable to speak to you?’

  Herbie had written that he must seize the day. ‘I-I-I …’

  ‘I suspect that you-you-you, Thomas Becket, do not want to hear him upbraid you for leaving him unattended so long.’

  ‘I find that objectionable.’

  The King stared in silence until the Chancellor mumbled an apology.

  ‘All right. Piss off. Sail tonight, for all I care.’

  You care nothing for me. You never did. ‘Thank you,’ Becket muttered.

  His travelling bag was already packed. Earlier, one of his servants had checked the tides. He could sail at sunset. As soon as he was out of Henry’s sight, he gave a small skip. I knew he’d be angry and tell me to leave. Seize the day!

  He arrived in Canterbury in time for compline, accompanied only by a squire and dressed, as he frequently complained, ‘like a Normandy fisherman’. In the line of black lilies filing into the cathedral, several cowled heads turned then continued on, muttering. Becket stood in isolation towards the back of the church, his solemn demeanour stiffened to a mask of grief.

  As the chanting of the final prayer drifted into silence and before the great bell rang to announce that the service was at an end, he dropped his face into his hands and wailed. The monks, withdrawn into themselves, paced the nave slowly, but as they came abreast of the Archdeacon, many awoke from the trance of devotion to glance at him. ‘I didn’t know!’ Becket muttered repeatedly. ‘Nobody told me.’ His chest shook.

  As they arrived outside the church in the dark, several of the monks gathered together into groups. ‘Is it possible?’ they asked. ‘The King himself was here and saw the piteous state of our Archbishop. Did he not inform our Archdeacon?’

  It was improper to indulge in worldly conversation at any time. Once the light of the sun withdrew from earth, all hearts were expected to turn to thoughts of the life eternal, and silence was required. The final meal of the day had been eaten hours earlier and the fast would not be broken until after the dawn prayer of matins. But that night the dormitory buzzed like a hive.

  Without speaking to anyone, the Archdeacon went to Theobald’s apartment, where, in front of priests and brothers, he fell to his knees with heartbroken sobbing. ‘Dear Father, forgive me!’ he wept. ‘Hear my confession.’

  The Archbishop, peacefully asleep, gave a loud snore.

  Becket stayed beside him all night, his head dropping from time to time as he fell asleep before waking with a start. As the bell for lauds chimed and enough light entered the chamber for its torches to be extinguished, Theobald’s eyes fluttered open. He said something and seemed to smile at his visitor. The Archdeacon grasped his unresisting hand and moved it so that it made the sign of the cross on his body. ‘Thank you, dear Father,’ he murmured. Theobald smiled again, but at what it was impossible to say. Becket kissed his forehead, crossed himself and withdrew.

  He arrived at the chapter house, where the monks were already gathered to listen to the Rule. This morning, chapter five was being read, enjoining cenobites to pledge ungrudging and absolute obedience to the superior in all things lawful. ‘Unhesitating obedience is the first degree of humility,’ one of the brothers read.

  Becket waited outside, head bent. When the reading was over, he entered the chapter house tentatively. Every monk was staring at him. Don’t stammer, he told himself.

  ‘In the name of our Saviour, greetings, Brothers. As you see from my dress, I have travelled far to visit our dear Archbishop and this morning received his blessing.’

  Monks were forbidden to laugh. They had perfected the art of blank face, but their eyes – most sharp with intellect, some dull with stupidity, others shining with the light of theosis in them – all rested on Becket. He drew a deep b
reath.

  ‘Dear Brothers, I have been away from my post as Archdeacon too long. Worldly affairs that now bring me shame have detained me on the other side of the Narrow Sea, but even in my darkest hours the thought of Canterbury, its shining light, kept my soul from shrivelling away.’ He paused. Their usually inscrutable faces were curious, while their fingers busily fingered wooden rosaries. ‘You, Brothers, have kept me alive these past two years of turmoil and distress. Day and night, at the prayer times, I prayed with you and it was as if my flagging soul flew from wherever I was – be it castle, palace or battlefield – into the loving embrace of Christ Church Canterbury and her devoted monks. Half dead from my worldly labours, life flowed back into me as I heard your voices raised in chant.’

  He paused again. Not a finger moved.

  ‘After receiving the blessing of our Archbishop, I happened to go by the kitchens to ask for a morsel of bread and a cup of wine, since I was faint with hunger and thirst. But Brothers!’ His voice rose with such unexpected force, some men jumped on their stone bench. ‘Brothers! We are enjoined to eat and drink simply. But not to eat and drink that which is repugnant to health and life. I was shocked at the mouldy bread I was given. The wine was vinegar. I counted five rats. I saw loathsome insects crawling on the floor. I peered inside a barrel of flour and saw that it, too, was infested.’ Some of the monks nodded. ‘Brothers, this cannot be!’

  Cowled heads turned to each other, murmuring. Becket remained standing in the doorway, but behind him he sensed other bodies, and the light suddenly dimmed as a cold, hard voice, heavy with contempt, spoke.

  ‘After years away, you’ve returned to Canterbury to complain about the food, Archdeacon?’

  Becket did not turn round. ‘Our learned Bishop Foliot has joined us, Brothers. What joy to have a man of such erudition in our midst. What an ornament to Mother Church is our Bishop of Hereford, who preceded me here as Archdeacon. I am sure that in his time your food was better. Was it not?’

  There was some slight nodding from respect for Foliot the scholar rather, than in response to Becket’s question. He decided to press home.

  ‘I stand guilty!’ he cried. ‘I, who should have been looking after your welfare, have neglected you so you eat stale bread and drink sour wine. Brothers, I ask your forgiveness. Can you forgive my dereliction?’ There were sceptical looks, and some lowered heads. It was time for the climax. ‘As of today, Brothers, I, your Archdeacon, will see to the reform of Christ Church’s kitchens and victuals. You need strong, healthy bodies to carry out the great works of your strong, sweet and healthy souls.’ He gave a great sigh before turning to face the flint-eyed, aristocratic glare of Gilbert Foliot.

  The Bishop smiled. ‘Have we met?’ he asked.

  Becket muttered, ‘I suggest, Gilbert, we move out of the doorway so the brothers can leave the chapter house.’

  The Bishop inclined his head graciously. He was as tall as Becket, tonsured, the hair at the back already grey. ‘It was grey when he was born,’ Becket liked to say. As they moved off, the Chancellor gave a quick glance to Herbie, who was standing with a couple of other young scholars. His look said, ‘Don’t follow.’

  The two men strolled in silence to a further part of the cloister. When they were out of earshot, Foliot said, ‘How extraordinary that my kinsman, Henry, did not mention that our Archbishop was dying and longed for you to farewell him while he still had his wits.’

  If I lie, Henry will hear of it. ‘He did. He said the Archbishop was frail but his mind was sound. I was engaged in essential work for His Highness, so I delayed. I now regret it.’

  Foliot crossed himself. ‘I never thought I’d live to hear the word “regret” fall from the lips of Thomas of London.’ His tone was so sarcastic he could barely stop himself laughing. ‘What’s done it to you, Tom? Exile from court in Rouen?’

  ‘As ever, you’re well informed, Gilbert.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I thought that would be obvious to a man of your great intellect. I’m here to farewell our dear Archbishop.’

  ‘How unusual that you concern yourself with the monks’ diet. I vividly remember your remark when I was archdeacon that “monks are as dirty as pigs, so let them eat slops”. Such sentiments stick in one’s memory.’

  ‘Your memory is faulty. Some other deacon must have said that. Monks are the backbone of Mother Church. I would never have spoken of them disrespectfully.’

  Foliot was silent. He was the master of his passions. His silence made Becket nervous.

  ‘If you must know, Gilbert, I’m also here to collect something for His Highness.’

  ‘That would be money,’ the Bishop of Hereford replied in a voice as dry as tinder. The conversation was over.

  Becket turned back to the stretch of cloister where Herbie and his friends waited for him. ‘For God’s sake, have the servants draw me a bath,’ he said. ‘My clean clothes are with the squire.’

  He breakfasted well on young pheasant, fine bread and honeyed fruit while listening to Herbie report. It has he who had suggested that the monks would appreciate an improvement in their food. ‘They want better and more parchment,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll arrange it.’

  ‘And more scribes.’

  ‘What about books?’

  ‘Brilliant, Tom! I think when next you visit you should inspect the library and be shocked at how poorly stocked it is.’

  ‘Done.’

  Before he left Canterbury, Becket called once more on Theobald, then visited the treasury, where he withdrew the accumulated money owing to him and, to keep good his lie to Foliot, requested in the King’s name a gold cross. ‘His Highness has many important ecclesiastical visitors at the moment and feels the need of it,’ he explained. The treasury guard signed it out to him without quibble. ‘Keep your eye on that man,’ Thomas told Herbie. ‘I think an audit of the treasury is due. I’ll write a note to our Archbishop, and suggest you be among the auditors.’

  Herbert bent a graceful knee. When the Archdeacon had mounted and was at the gates, he allowed the scholar to kiss his hand.

  At Easter, Louis sent word to Pope Alexander that soon he would meet ‘my mightiest and most dangerous vassal, the English King’, on the border of Normandy and France. ‘Holy Father,’ the emissary announced, ‘the parley between the monarchs will determine your position as True Pope. Henry’s Chancellor gave the King’s word that he will support you. But until we meet face-to-face, nothing is guaranteed. Meanwhile Barbarossa has halted his army’s advance through Burgundy. He has more mercenaries than France and England combined.’

  The Sienese smiled with the weary amusement of men from ancient, mighty civilisations who accept as a fact of life that history is a fickle friend. ‘Unlike Victor, I have no fighting men. I shall come in person to observe the parley.’

  When his decision was reported to Louis, the French King was so alarmed he rode out by night to the abbey where Alexander had taken refuge. ‘Holiness, you may be in harm’s way. Henry has a long friendship with Barbarossa and plans a family tie. His men could capture you and hand you to the Emperor.’ The Pontiff gave a slight shrug. Louis persisted. ‘Father, may I suggest that until Henry and I have talked, you remain hidden behind my escort of knights? In an emergency they will ensure your escape.’

  ‘I prefer to believe the Saviour will be my knight.’

  Louis fell to his knees. ‘Oh, my impiety! Forgive me, Holiness.’

  Alexander added, ‘All the same, your advice is practical. I’ll remain hidden until the time seems right. If it seems right.’

  Becket was told to be present when Henry and Louis met in the month of May, when the land would be carpeted in green, the air fragrant with wild flowers and gay with the twittering of little birds. ‘Maybe he’ll announce to Louis that I’m once more a member of the familiares,’ he told Leo. ‘It’s the sort of unexpected thing he does.’ He dressed with special care, discarding several robes as ostentatious. ‘Henry
alone must shine, my pet. He’s the peacock. I’m the dun peahen. Tra-la!’

  Early that morning, Henry had a bath servant wash and cut his hair so it only brushed the top of his shoulders. His beard was cropped close to his chin, his nails trimmed, and he was scented with an oil Eleanor imported from Spain at outrageous expense.

  As usual, Louis’ barbering was immaculate, his chin outlined with a black beard so thin it could have been drawn by an inked quill. Each monarch wore the smallest of crowns to show the lack of formality between them. Beside the Chancellor rode Hamelin, whose hand rested on the shoulder of Little Geoffrey, but neither monarch deigned to notice the other’s entourage. They had eyes only for each other.

  None of this would have happened without me, Becket thought.

  Hamelin asked suddenly, ‘What is it you really want, Chancellor? It’s more than wealth and power, is it not? You want vengeance on the King.’

  Becket’s heart palpitated as fast as Leo’s. He looked down and saw his hands trembling. ‘You insult me, merlin. My only desire is to serve His Highness and raise his son in my household to become the most admirable prince in Europe. If, one day, I were to become a bishop …’

  Hamelin said nothing.

  Close to the great elm known as the Parley Tree, the kings dismounted to kiss while the Pontiff stayed behind a wall of French knights. He watched the monarchs walk arm-in-arm to the elm, where ribbons of many colours tied around its trunk lifted and floated in the light spring breeze.

  Henry said, ‘A monk told me that Charles Martel – and later Charlemagne – slept beneath this tree on his way south to fight the Moors.’

  Louis smiled. Everyone knew the story of how the elm had helped save Europe from invasion by the infidels who had conquered Spain and Outremer. Its other names were the Victory Tree, Charlemagne’s Tree, even the Emperor. Three centuries earlier, it had already towered above the surrounding forest.

  Henry continued to chatter, feeling out Louis’ mood. ‘I encourage the local peasants to decorate it when they pray. I give them the wool.’