‘As soon as it’s dark.’
The evening was growing cool. Richard asked permission to enter the King’s apartment, where a fire danced in the grate. Hamelin, the justiciars and half a dozen senior barons were gathered, all seated, nursing cups of ale, their expressions surly.
‘Well, Piglet?’ Henry asked.
‘He’s bribed the guards. He’ll flee tonight.’
The King nodded. ‘First to Canterbury to collect gold. Then to Dunkerque, I expect. Next to Louis or the Pope. He’ll try to persuade Alexander to excommunicate me and the bishops who spoke against him. If Alexander speaks out of both sides of his mouth as he usually does, Louis, the Scots and the Welsh will attack England like hounds on a stag at bay.’
Ranulf de Broc leaped up and shouted, ‘My lords, our lovely England may have her throat torn out. She may be dismembered!’ Nobles darted glances at each other. ‘Louis would make the Count of Blois our ruler. We’d have another King Stephen.’ Their eyes turned to Henry, whose face betrayed nothing. ‘Sire, he must be captured before he reaches Canterbury.’
‘On the contrary, my dear Ranulf. I want him to escape, so prelates can see the courage of their leader, that he abandons his see and all his responsibilities. This villainous priest is bent on the destruction of the House of Plantagenet. He’s prevented my eldest son from being crowned Young King, so in the event of my death the realm will be left without a monarch. Before that, when I entrusted the boy to his care, he turned the lad’s affections against me. He banned the marriage of my youngest brother, causing him to die of a broken heart. His best chance of attacking me now lies in France.’ Unexpectedly, his eyes crinkled into a smile. ‘If it were possible, I believe he’d seduce my wife. So, friends, I’m aware of the problem. What we need is a solution.’
Richard said quietly, ‘Sire, we’ll never have peace while he remains Archbishop.’ Kneeling before the King, he licked his soft lips and from beneath long lashes looked into the face of his lord. ‘I know of something that may persuade him to resign.’
The chamber held its breath.
Henry stared into the pale eyes that gazed steadily back at him. In Angevin he asked, ‘Do you lie, Lout?’
‘Slightly.’
Henry raised his voice to resume discussion in English. ‘If one of you comes across the traitor Archbishop as he attempts to flee, he may be arrested. He may not be injured. Is my intention clear?’
Richard laid his forehead against the King’s knee. ‘Perfectly, sire.’
‘Well, friends, aside from this contretemps, England progresses smoothly. Our silver penny is the most trusted coin in Europe. Trade is excellent. The King’s law reaches a mighty arm over the realm. But I have urgent business across the Narrow Sea. Her Highness and the Earl of Surrey will be co-regents in my absence.’
‘Ride fast, my lord,’ Richard said. ‘You need to reach the Pope before Bec does.’ Henry ruffled his hair.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The north gate of the city was unguarded, and on a night of half-moon they set out. ‘Your plan of escape works perfectly. We have outwitted him!’ Thomas rejoiced when they stopped for him to change into the plain black clothing of a Gilbertine lay brother. ‘I call myself Christian, for that is who I am. A Christian soldier who fights for Mother Church.’
Disappointingly, there was little gold or silver to be collected in Canterbury because the King’s man, Geoffrey Riddel, had put the cathedral’s treasure under lock and key. But in the dead of night Thomas did manage to collect his pallium and seals, and before dawn, during a horrendous rain storm, he and his small party set out for the coast.
‘In which direction do you lead us, Herbie?’
‘They’ll expect us to ride south, but we go north, to Horndon. We’ll then turn south, embark at Sandwich and sail to Flanders. Men from a monastery will meet us on the beach with horses for our journey to the Île-de-France.’
‘No danger from Henry’s kinsman, the Count of Flanders?’
‘For some humble brothers? None at all.’
Late in the afternoon, Brother Christian’s little boat approached the fishing village of Oye, not far from Dunkerque, where men from St Bertin’s monastery waited, holding horses.
Thomas hissed, ‘I’m to ride that?’ His mount, the best of them, was a miserable rouncey, hired for a sou.
‘Yes, Brother,’ Herbert replied. ‘Please remember—’
‘Of course. Of course.’ In the twilight a magnificent hawk rose from the reeds of a nearby river to hover in the misty grey sky. ‘Look at her!’ Becket cried. ‘She’s as beautiful and strong …’
The monks of St Bertin turned to each other, puzzled.
Herbert showed them his laughing face. ‘Brother Christian mistook the bird for an eagle, symbol of Our Lord. He took its appearance as a blessing on our pilgrimage.’
They shrugged, trudging on foot, too poor for horses.
News of the scandal in England had reached Paris. The French Queen exclaimed, ‘Husband, if you strike now, you’ll have Henry Plantagenet within your grasp! The Scots will join you, the Welsh will—’
‘Calm yourself, my dear. Agitation is not favourable when a son is to be conceived. You need to walk in the garden and listen to soothing music.’
‘That’ll give me a daughter,’ she muttered. She was trying to pull a shoe from the mouth of her young hound, but realised she’d get no help from her husband. He was eager to join his advisers. ‘Take the Archbishop prisoner when he arrives in France,’ she called after him. ‘Henry will be obliged to ransom him.’
More fiery than Eleanor, Louis thought ruefully. But with motherhood her temperament will soften. The idea cheered him. By the time he arrived in the audience hall, he emanated regal calm. The scandal was on every lip. Men were laughing and slapping their thighs, but fell silent as their monarch entered. ‘I shall seek audience with His Holiness,’ Louis announced.
The Pope was in a troubled mood. Seated with him was the Bishop of Winchester, who had given a full and accurate report of proceedings in Northampton. ‘He should not have fled,’ Alexander muttered. ‘You’re sure the King did not pursue him?’
Winchester nodded. ‘Our leader is an embarrassment to every bishop in England, even me, his most ardent supporter.’
The Holy Father studied Winchester’s fat, crafty face. ‘I heard you lent him money once.’
‘True.’
‘To buy the Chancellorship.’
‘Correct.’
‘Perhaps he and Henry deserve each other.’
‘Holiness, the King was hardly more than a boy. The country was in ruins. I had no doubt that Oily … I mean Becket would make an excellent Chancellor. He did. I believe I acted honourably in helping secure his position at court.’
‘Quite. But now we have a troublesome priest who’s fled his see.’
‘He presents himself to all junior clergy as a hero for Mother Church.’
The Pope turned to his secretary, Giovanni, to remark, ‘May God save us from such heroes.’
Winchester had a shrewd idea of what he’d said in his native tongue. ‘Holy Father, a story goes round that when he was a boy, Thomas’s mother had a vision that one day he would be the greatest man in England. This spurs him on.’
‘To what?’ Alexander asked. ‘To wreck the institution he’s meant to lead? He ordered you all to agree to a document that weakened the Church. He then reversed his position. He perjured himself. He has been tried and found guilty of theft while Chancellor, a position he continued to hold after his ordination as a priest. He gave up his status as archdeacon only because the King forced him to. And now he’s abandoned his flock. Your Grace, I was forced into exile at the point of Barbarossa’s sword. Your Archbishop chose to abscond when crimes against him were proven by a royal council.’
‘As ever you speak the truth, Holiness.’
‘I shall advise him to return to Canterbury and go quietly about his duties.’
Winchester
clasped his plump hands. The three sat in silence. At length he asked, ‘But is that possible, Holiness? The Archbishop is a convicted felon. Can he return to Canterbury?’
‘He can if the King pardons him.’
The Bishop’s small, cunning eyes disappeared in the swell of his fat cheeks. ‘Father, how my heart rejoices that in you we have a man of God and of brilliant legal mind.’ Alexander acknowledged the compliment with the faintest movement of one hand.
The three men were enjoying a glass of wine when King Louis arrived. The Pope’s mood brightened. ‘My dear Louis, faithful son, the very man I want to see.’
The French King listened, nodding gravely. ‘Technically, Henry and I are still at war. We have only a truce. Given this, I’m not sure he’ll trust me if I suggest he pardons his Archbishop.’
‘He probably won’t.’ The Holy Father paused. ‘The Archbishop may not trust his King’s pardon either.’
‘The poor, tormented man will arrive in Paris within the week. I’ll do my best to act as broker between him and Henry.’
Louis and Winchester left together. Outside the monastery the King asked, ‘What does Bec really want?’
‘Want!’ Winchester chortled. ‘He wants to be a saint.’
To his own astonishment, Louis joined the prelate in robust laughter. ‘Vanity, vanity, all is vanity,’ they chanted.
The French King galloped home in front of his escort, feeling himself at the perfect point of piety and excitement for a marital visit. In the dialect of Champagne, Adela murmured obscenities that aroused her secret part to a hungry, drooling mouth. ‘You give me spasms!’ she panted. ‘I’ll give you a son!’
Through rosy sunsets and sumptuous orange sunrises, sleeping only twenty minutes when they changed horses, Henry travelled from Northampton to the south coast in less than three days. When he and his exhausted escort embarked, the wind blew from the north, their ship rising and falling in a slow canter across the Narrow Sea. Oarsmen sang to the steady beat of a drum while the royal party slept.
On arrival in Normandy, Henry visited his mother. ‘You must talk to Louis before Bec arrives in Paris,’ she said.
‘I thought I should call on the Pope.’
‘Louis first,’ the Empress snapped.
Outside in the small graveyard of the house of retreat, he kneeled on damp grass beside the slab of red marble that covered what was left of his brother. His fatigue and his mother’s coldness had drained his tears. Brito prayed. Richard flung his arms across the broad smooth stone and wept. ‘Lord William, you taught me to swim,’ he snivelled.
‘Shut up,’ Henry growled.
‘You taught me how to strike down with my sword a much taller man,’ he whispered to the marble.
In Paris, his discussion with Louis was brief and acrimonious. ‘You intend to harbour an English criminal.’
‘He’s not yet asked me for asylum.’
‘He will, brother. He will.’
‘I believe his trial was unjust. Your Archbishop shall have refuge in France.’
Henry walked out with barely a nod.
As soon as he knew with certainty that Becket had arrived at the Paris court and that the French king was supporting him in splendour, he issued an order. ‘Bec’s entire household is expelled from England. His sisters. Their spouses. Their children. The servants. They take nothing. I, once their patron, now bestow this privilege on Louis of France.’
Henry’s interview with Alexander was in the sunny walled garden of an abbey just south of the capital. The Pope remained seated on a throne while Henry, bare-headed, kneeled before him on a cushion.
‘He does have beautiful hair,’ Giovanni said. ‘I’d like to touch it.’
‘I forbid you.’
Henry watched the shadow of the papal hand move above his head, making the sign of the cross. He rose, eyes modestly downcast, and accepted a chair that Giovanni indicated.
‘Well, my son?’
‘Holiness, I’m guilty of great folly. For six years I nurtured in my bosom what I believed was a lamb. I was mistaken. The creature was a wolf. I added to my blunder by forcing that wolf onto an unwilling Church as her leader. Now I and England pay the price.’
Alexander waited. When the King had nothing more to add, he said, ‘The man to whom you refer requests audience with me. I shall order him to spend his days in prayerful penance. I believe the wolf, as you describe him, may be saved by our Lamb.’ He smiled faintly at his own joke. ‘Were he to repent, would you give him royal pardon?’
Were he to repent, I’d eat my shoe, Henry thought. ‘Repent everything?’
The Pontiff sighed. ‘An impossible condition. Only on death is that grace bestowed upon the sinner.’
Henry smiled wistfully. ‘On death,’ he murmured. ‘There is hope for me yet.’
‘You have been deeply wounded, my son.’
The King nodded.
‘The world sees your ferocious authority. I see your soft heart.’
Henry kneeled again for a blessing of departure.
‘He’ll do it,’ Alexander said when the King had gone.
Giovanni replied, ‘From what I hear, it’s the Archbishop who’ll give more trouble.’
Negotiations began but dragged on. And on. And on. Five Christmases passed; five Easters. One day Louis told the Pope, ‘Holy Father, unwillingly I’ve come to believe that Becket is a mischief-maker. He has excommunicated a number of English bishops.’
Momentarily, serenity fled. ‘Surely that is untrue. He turns his own bishops into lepers to whom no one may speak, who may never enter a church? Whose very presence may not be tolerated by their own priests, or family or servants, lest they be infected as if with a deadly disease? I cannot believe it.’
‘Unhappily, it’s true. He spends his days not in prayer, as you advised, but in studying law books to make his case against the Plantagenet. False this, false that. I tell him, “Thomas, this is not a problem of law, but of politics. You must understand there is a difference.” He refuses your advice. He refuses my advice. He refuses the advice of his closest companions, to whom he boasts that one day he will be greater than England’s monarch.’
‘And Henry?’
‘He displays a patience I had not expected.’
Alexander was thoughtful. He’d heard from clergy in the west of England that the King was smitten with love for a virgin. If his heart is soft with love, there is yet hope.
In a chapel of the Cistercian abbey where he was staying, one night Thomas called again for a bell, the book and candles. Shouting out names, he rang the bell, held high the bible and flung each candle to the flagstones, where he stamped out the flames. The chapel pitched into darkness. The names Becket had called were those of the royal justiciars. ‘Now the Beast has no one in England to tell him what to think,’ he announced.
When he heard of the excommunication of his right-hand men, Henry flew into a rage, but it quickly burned out and he found his mind was clear. ‘I bestow the administration of Canterbury lands on my good and faithful friend Ranulf de Broc,’ he announced. ‘He shall collect their income.’
Outside Paris, Alexander said to King Louis, ‘I begin to fear our cherished son Henry does not want Becket to return. There are rumours the Archbishop says he will excommunicate the King. That I shall forbid. English bishops petition me to overthrow Becket for his crimes. It could take years to investigate their claims.’ The soft papal hands flew in the air. ‘Giovanni, I deal not with a leader of a nation’s church but a wilful child.’
Giovanni replied in their native tongue, ‘I hear the King of France remarks on the huge expense he has incurred in supporting the Archbishop’s household. He complains he has a plague of locusts eating his treasury.’
The Pope turned back to Louis. ‘Highness, may I suggest you arrange one more meeting, at which you speak with severity to your protégé?’
They gathered in the palace of Fréteval, where pairs of swans floated around in the moat, sometime
s rubbing their necks against each other. But England’s King and her Archbishop refused to meet face-to-face. Henry told Louis, ‘I need him back in Canterbury, brother, to crown my son Young King and your daughter Young Queen of England. I offer pardon and safe conduct in return for performing the coronation within a fortnight of his return and withdrawing all excommunications.’
Louis took the offer to Becket. He refused. ‘Do you wish to be more than a saint?’ the French King shouted.
‘I did not become a priest in order to take orders from a layman,’ Thomas snorted at him. Louis walked out.
That evening Herbert arrived with a message from Henry that raised Becket’s spirits to triumph. ‘I trust the word of His Highness. I will return to Canterbury and with jubilation, crown his son. Go back and tell him.’
Henry was suffering marsh fever, contracted after a battle in Brittany. ‘No mention of withdrawing the excommunications,’ he muttered to Bosham.
‘An oversight on my part, sire. His Grace promised he would withdraw them as soon as he had authority to do so.’
‘When might that be?’
‘When he feels secure. When he feels that the English church embraces him once more …’
The King waved him out. ‘I need to sleep.’
During the years of negotiations, Becket had lost his lustre and vitality. When Herbert returned with the news that his restoration was assured, his beauty returned in a rush. He was a man in his prime again. ‘I’ve won!’ he cried.
‘He mentioned the excommunications. I’ve not misled His Highness, have I, Tom? I was sure you said you would overturn them.’
‘Don’t fuss yourself, my dear. Whatever I said, I’m now returning to England while the Beast must stay in France and die of fever. I’ve convinced Queen Adela that Henry has secret plans to attack Louis, so her husband had better attack him first. Our King is stuck here, waiting for war and still too weak to mount a horse. How sad I am. Tra-la!’
There was joy among the minor clergy at the news of the return of their Archbishop, hero of the rights of Mother Church, their protector against evil laws and now pardoned by the King. Priests throughout the land preached the good news despite warnings from their bishops. But many of these bishops had been excommunicated, so their orders could be safely ignored. The common people had not understood the issues, but believed what they heard in church: that the turmoil had been another sign of the end of days. Obviously, however, the Day of Judgement was delayed once more, since harmony was restored between heaven and earth.
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