On receiving the royal summons in his apartment in Westminster, Becket felt so faint with delight he needed to lie down. Whom can I tell? he wondered. Henry’s letter said, If your reason for travel is questioned by anyone, you are to say I need your assistance for establishing a mint in Anjou. You may bring a groom, but otherwise you are to travel alone.
I’ll take Herbie as my groom, Thomas decided. He and Bosham met in Canterbury and that afternoon sailed from Dover.
‘Will there be a banquet?’ Herbert asked.
‘Most certainly. Norman and Angevin bishops and magnates.
Probably thirty or forty …’
Herbert was open-mouthed when first he glimpsed the cream stone walls of Falaise. They had two grooms, plus packhorses. The party halted in the valley below to gaze up at the castle’s magnificence. From a tower flew a red and gold standard of lions courant.
The horses were sweating from the climb as they reached the gates of Falaise. When Henry did not appear to greet him, Becket said, ‘He must be with the guests.’
A guard asked the two men to wait in a small reception hall, adding, ‘Your bathwater is being heated, sir.’ A churl served them cups of cider. Herbert gagged on it. The guardsman said to him, ‘Sir, you must wait here. Or you can go to the knights’ hall for dinner. The Duke is expecting one man only.’
Becket paled. ‘He’s changed his mind! He’s summoned me here to dismiss me as Chancellor.’
Herbert said, ‘Tom, darling, you’re overwrought. He can’t have spent so much effort in promoting you only to give way to the arguments of men like Foliot. You’ll feel better after a bath.’
Inside the dining hall Richard and Henry were playing chess. Hamelin reclined on a couch trying out a new composition on a lute. At the far end of the chamber a feast was laid out: game, spring vegetables, honeyed fruit and Aquitaine’s best wines. Only two places were set.
‘You’re both to disappear before he enters,’ the King said. ‘May I suggest that curtain close to where you’ll eat, sire?’ Richard suggested.
‘You may.’
Hamelin dragged his couch into the dark north-east corner of the tower and shook out a length of cloth. When he lay down flat with the cloth over his face, he became invisible.
Becket’s arrival took so long, Henry became impatient. ‘Find out what he’s doing,’ he ordered a churl.
The man returned to announce, ‘The Chancellor is shitting.’ ‘Nervous,’ Richard said. ‘Highness, it’s not too late to change your mind. Nominate your kinsman Bishop Foliot.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s more than a year since our Archbishop died. Since then I’ve worked day and night to persuade the baronage and senior clergy to accept the successor whom Theobald recommended both in writing and orally a dozen times. If after such effort I switched to Foliot, I’d be seen as indecisive.’
A knock on the door made Richard and Hamelin disappear. The Chancellor swept into the audience hall resplendent in a gown of pale green silk with an underlay of lavender. As he looked around for the group whom he anticipated would applaud his entrance, his cheeks drained of colour.
Henry rose and strolled forward to greet him. He was dressed casually in an undecorated gown of dark blue over a robe several shades lighter. Only one ring adorned his hands, the enormous sapphire of his great-grandfather.
‘I-I-I see you wear the Conqueror’s ring, Henry.’
The King stretched out his arm to admire the jewel. ‘I do, on important occasions.’
Becket did his best to smile. ‘I see only two places set at table. Is this a j-j-jest?’
Henry raised an eyebrow. ‘Does this hall look like a market? Are we in a puppet show?’
They embraced stiffly. Becket’s long dark hair was still damp from the bath. Beneath the rose scent with which he had perfumed himself, Henry detected the smell of fear. He reached up – the Chancellor was half a palm taller than he – and ran his hand across the wet hair. ‘You’ll be getting this shaved.’
This is how you tell me? Becket thought. One of the greatest moments in my life and you jest about a tonsure?
Henry continued, ‘I require your oath of fealty.’
Becket fell to his knees, barely aware of what he was saying. ‘I vow to you my homage, Lord King, to protect your life and limbs. My life and all my worldly goods are at your service.’
‘You’re shaking.’
Becket burst into tears. ‘This is the pinnacle of my life, but you …’
The King hooked his thumbs into his belt, his head cocked sideways. ‘God’s teeth, Bec! You know as well as I that this has been coming for more than a year. I’ve worked like a Roman slave to have you accepted for Canterbury.’
‘Why are we alone?’ Becket blurted.
Henry shrugged. ‘What difference would a crowd make? I’m starving. Let’s eat.’
‘I’m so overcome I can’t eat a thing.’
Henry washed his fingers in a bowl of warm water. Becket did the same. ‘Struggle to swallow a wing of this pheasant I shot for you yesterday. Or maybe a thin slice of venison? That too I hunted just for you.’ His visitor stopped shaking. Their drinking cups were already filled. ‘Here’s a toast to my naughty Archbishop.’
Becket inhaled through his nose. ‘I’m not naughty, Henry. You demean yourself in saying so.’
‘Really? In the past twelve months others have said much worse things about you.’ Henry’s face began turning red. ‘I had to shout them down. I shouted them down on your behalf, you ungrateful, jumped-up villein. You’ve just sworn homage to me, but presume to lecture me? How dare you! You’re not Archbishop yet. You’re still my Chancellor.’
Thomas bent his head and banged his forehead on the table. Dishes jumped and clattered. Wine drops flew from his cup onto the front of his gown. ‘Forgive me. My liege, forgive me. I was overcome with—’
‘Pride,’ Henry said.
‘Yes, pride. I’ll have myself scourged.’
‘My arse, you will.’
Norman churls cringed against the walls.
‘You scourge me!’ Becket said suddenly. ‘You do it!’ Inaudibly he whispered, ‘You did it once before.’
Henry snorted. Silence enveloped them, except for the sound of the King tearing the thighs off pheasants and banging his cup for more wine. Thomas sat with his hands folded in his lap, waiting for his fury to abate. When he felt calm, he beckoned a churl and pointed to the cuts of flesh and fowl he would eat.
‘Didn’t think you’d starve,’ Henry mumbled. He was already enjoying a dish of greens. He washed his hands in a second bowl of warm water while the Chancellor continued to eat. ‘I realise your problem, Bec,’ he said. ‘You crave the job. But it frightens you. Is that not so?’
The Chancellor nodded.
‘Every bishop made the same argument to me: you’re untrained. You’re not a priest. You’re ignorant of scripture. You know very little canon law – except for what your girlfriend, Herbert of Bosham, has been pouring into your ear. You’ve never said a Mass. You don’t know how to say Mass. Although you spent years with Theobald, you’re still ignorant of the deportment of a priest …’
He paused. Becket’s long, jewelled fingers gripped the edge of the board.
‘I’ve borne all this in mind, Bec, because it’s all true. But it’s also true you are highly intelligent – much more so than our dear Theobald – and industrious to a degree I’ve not encountered in any other man. I told them, “He’ll learn. He’ll apply himself. And he’ll succeed in overcoming his lack of experience and education.” I gave them the example of how quickly you learned the role of Chancellor – running a chancery of numerous learned, argumentative and often arrogant scribes. How, from being a nobody, you became an adornment to my court. I could leave negotiations of trade with foreign countries to you. You entertained ambassadors at feasts. I told them you have a genius for organisation. That you will reorganise the Church’s finances. That you will ensure her taxes are collected and
the crimes of her clergy are punished, so that her honour and respect among the faithful becomes once more a shining mantle.’
Becket stopped eating. His lustrous eyes rested on Henry. ‘You understand! Henry, I can’t express how grateful I am that I’ve not had to confess my terror to you.’ He rose from his chair to kneel beside the King’s. There are moments when I still adore you.
Henry placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I became a monarch at the age of twenty-one, Tom. I wasn’t the son of a king. My father was only a count when I was born. All I’d learned of kingcraft was from my mother’s lectures. But …’ he shivered, ‘the moment I was crowned, heaven came to my aid. I lost all apprehension. I knew that the unseen world that shapes our destinies stood beside me. I cannot tell you what an experience it is to know that heaven watches and smiles.’ He paused. ‘Truly, Bec, I hope at your elevation you’ll have the same experience.’ The Chancellor’s face glowed. Henry leaned over to kiss his lips. ‘My sword is iron, a visible symbol of my power,’ he said huskily. ‘Your sword is a cross of gold. These two swords must move in harmony.’
‘They will! They will, Henry. Every cause for your anger with the clergy will vanish. I’ll punish criminous clerks without mercy. I’ll prosecute simony. With me as Archbishop the English church will become the envy of Europe. You’ll never regret what you’ve done.’
When Becket had left, Richard strolled from behind the curtain, brushing dust from his gown. ‘Well?’ the King demanded. ‘Your insight, Piglet?’
‘Sire, except for his confession of terror at his shortcomings for the role of Archbishop, every word he uttered about what he intends to do was a lie. I cut a little hole in the curtain so I could watch his eyes. Before he told a lie they flicked upwards. His words did not come from his heart but from thinking about what he should say to deceive you.’
Henry glowered. ‘You speak from hatred of him, Lout. All my plans for reform in England, formulated over months and years, rest on that man.’
‘A weak reed, as they say at Canterbury.’
‘Get out!’ Henry shouted. Richard grabbed the dish holding an uneaten pheasant before sauntering away. Hamelin was sitting upright, bent over his lute. ‘You’re as unhelpful as the Lout,’ the King added.
Hamelin frowned as his fingers searched the strings for a note he could not locate. ‘We witnessed his oath of fealty – if ever he should seek to deny it.’
Becket wept in Herbert’s arms. They lay together in the finest of the castle’s guest apartments, where sunlight entered through narrow windows that in winter would be covered with thinly sliced horn but at this time of year were open to the breeze.
‘This is where it all began – maybe in this very chamber,’ Thomas said. They rose to look out onto the countryside below while Thomas recounted the story of Duke Robert and Arlette. ‘England was made here in this castle.’
‘And today it’s being made afresh,’ Herbert said. Becket had another fit of tears.
‘He made me swear to be his vassal!’
‘Why didn’t you refuse?’
‘Herbie, you have no idea how ferocious he is. Had I refused …’ They clung to each other.
Herbert whispered, ‘Would he have …?’
‘Strangled me until I submitted. He’s as strong as a lion.’
Before supper, the King summoned Becket to meet him in the garden to discuss the crowning of his Prince. Full-grown trees and flowering shrubs in stone-enclosed beds bordered the pathways.
‘I’ll establish a regency council in England until the boy comes of age. As Archbishop, you and the Queen will share equal power. My brother, William, soon to be Earl of Surrey, will be a magnate surpassing Earl Robert. The English are a conquered people who suffered the chaos of a long civil war. A secure royal dynasty is of utmost importance to them, for it gives subjects a sense of confidence. It removes the fear their lives may be turned upside down by palace intrigues. The boy must be crowned in the next two weeks because the campaign season will open at the end of May, and despite the Vexin truce, I expect to be at war against Louis.’
Becket listened. I am calm, he told himself. I’m a breath away from my destiny.
‘Henry, may I suggest you delay the crowning a tiny moment only, until I’m elevated to Canterbury? I realise you have authority from His Holiness for York to crown our son, and all the royal regalia has been purchased. But my liege, a coronation by York offends two English customs. First, to have both a King and a Young King will strain the English mind. It’s a French idea. I understand what you say about the need for stability, but I believe the common people won’t like it. And second, to allow York instead of Canterbury to officiate … Henry, I beg you: reconsider the timing of the coronation, lest by haste you insult your subjects’ feelings and diminish your Prince’s authority.’
The King prowled back and forth, fingering leaves and flowers. ‘Tom, I have broader concerns than English protocol. A delay will cause anger in Paris. I want to soothe Louis’ injured pride by elevating his daughter to Young Queen.’
‘Henry, April is at an end. You’ve scheduled a Great Council in Westminster with bishops, abbots, priors, earls, barons, the justiciars and the foremost sheriffs. At that council your nomination of me as Archbishop will be accepted or rejected—’
‘Rejected? It’ll be accepted, Bec. However much they despise you, they respect me!’
‘Of course, Henry. Of course they do. They all do. So again I say, delay a moment until I’ve been elevated to the throne of Canterbury. A Young King will be less contentious if Canterbury performs the rite and you are seen to be upholding the customs of England.’
Henry stopped pacing and rounded on Becket. ‘I dislike the undertone of your argument.’
That night, the Chancellor reached his apartment singing, ‘HALL-elujah! HALL-elujah!’ He pulled Herbert to his chest. ‘The Crown Prince will never be ordained Young King,’ he hissed. ‘Henry will have another war with France, and my actions – that is, my inaction – shall be its instigator.’
‘You conquer the Beast,’ Herbert whispered.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Bishop of Winchester, now kinsman to the King of France, chaired the meeting of the Great Council in Westminster on 23 May. With the exception of Gilbert Foliot, all clergy publicly accepted the King’s nomination for the throne of Canterbury. The baronage agreed without demur. When put to the vote in their chapter house, the monks of Christ Church voted in favour. Winchester read out the formal record of Becket’s election to lukewarm applause. When it ended, Foliot announced loudly, ‘His Highness has worked a miracle today. He has transformed a layman and a knight into an archbishop.’ Behind him an abbot added, ‘A man full of vainglory has been transferred from the royal court into the Church, grotesquely and irregularly, contrary to every rule of law.’
Thomas, the scholars, the deputy archdeacon, priests and several bishops with whom he had formed friendships spent days on the minutiae of his coronation. Nuns throughout the land were busy sewing and embroidering the sacred linens for the altar and the Archbishop’s alb, stoles, chasubles and capes. Others twisted new cinctures for him. His mitre was a work of art. He would wear red, but his vestments would be changed throughout the ceremony.
‘I’ve done this three times!’ he exploded as he held his arms straight while a chasuble heavy with gold was lowered over his head.
‘Lord Archbishop, you did not stand still and it fell at an angle,’ a young priest murmured.
Becket’s eyes sought Herbert, who fidgeted with nerves. He and the other eruditi, whom vicious tongues now called the catamiti, had been diligent in their study of the ancient forms and customs for the coronation of an archbishop. They calculated the number of thuribles used at Theobald’s elevation and decided to add another four. Theobald had had a peal of eight bells; Thomas would have twelve. And so it went.
‘Mine will be the most glorious coronation in English history,’ Thomas said as he, Herbie and a few of the o
ther scholars dined in private that evening.
‘Will His Highness not come?’ someone asked.
Becket and Bosham both laughed. ‘You imagine he’d allow himself to be outshone?’ Thomas chuckled.
In Aquitaine, where Henry and Eleanor had made a progress to accept homage and dispense justice, the King raised the issue of attending the ceremony. ‘We could sail from Bordeaux to Sandwich and be there in time,’ he said. ‘But it should be Bec’s day. If we’re there …’
‘Indeed, husband. He’d prefer we were not.’ ‘You’re harsh on old Bec.’
‘Is he still in love with you?’
‘Come, come, wife. Court prattle.’
In Canterbury Thomas sat with eyes closed as he was tonsured, only looking down when clumps of shining dark hair fell to the floor. ‘I said just the crown! I don’t want to be bald.’ He ordered clergy to whisper around town that the Archbishop-elect would have silver pennies thrown to the crowd. Two days before the great occasion, the faithful began streaming towards Canterbury. ‘I want more people at my coronation than Henry had at his,’ Becket told the scholars.
Bosham looked worried. ‘My lord, the people had a King and a Queen they had never seen before. I think we do not have …’
The Archbishop-elect waved him off. His nervous stomach troubled him and at night he had been unable to sleep. It was already June, and hot, without a breath of air to cool the evenings.
The day after he was tonsured and ordained a priest, Thomas’s next step was to become a prince of the Church. ‘I, a prince!’ he told himself repeatedly. ‘Little Thomas of London. Oily Tom. Prince Tom!’ It was a fine morning, but on waking he quickly lost his appetite.
The Lions' Torment Page 19