The Lions' Torment

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  The crowd that flocked to welcome home the hero strewed the roadway with autumn flowers to be crushed beneath the hooves of his war stallion. ‘The triumphant monarch returns from battle,’ Thomas announced to the scholars. His scarlet satin cloak lifted and subsided in the light southern breeze, his pectoral cross with a ruby carved in the shape of a rose hung over his heart, his pallium was draped around his shoulders.

  Among the surging hoi polloi were mounted barons, hoping that if Thomas was back, Henry would not be far behind. The Earl of Surrey, as England’s co-regent, greeted the Archbishop at the wharf. Becket did not return his formal welcome. ‘Where’s Her Highness?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s been obliged to travel to Aquitaine, Your Grace.’

  Becket snorted. ‘I heard there was trouble between her and the King.’

  ‘They are most amiable. As always.’

  ‘I’d believe you as soon as I’d believe a dog can whistle.’

  ‘You believe all sorts of things,’ Hamelin rumbled.

  Becket turned suddenly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I said.’

  ‘You threaten me! I can feel it.’

  ‘Your Grace, I suggest we end this unedifying conversation. Your wellwishers are excited to see you.’

  Becket raised his chin. ‘I shall address them.’ He filled his lungs and in a huge tenor voice sang, ‘Halle-lujah! Hallelujah!’

  The crowd sang back the hymn of praise. Hundreds lined the roadway, waving, singing, drunk with excitement, the mighty paean ringing through their heads. Brito said to Richard, ‘There’s no stopping him now.’

  Becket said to his escort, ‘There’s no stopping me now.’

  That evening he stayed in Battle Abbey, not far from the seaside town of Hastings. An antic mood overtook him as he rode up the hill to the grey sandstone walls. ‘Here William of Normandy killed the last Saxon king and conquered England. Today I reconquer this nation! Not with axe or sword but with our Saviour’s cross.’

  After dinner with the Abbot, he ordered one of his followers, ‘Bring me bell, book and candles.’

  The Abbot and monks gathered in a small side chapel of the cavernous main church. Thomas rang the bell. ‘Gilbert Foliot! Jocelin of Salisbury! Roger of York!’ He held the book high. ‘I condemn you never to enter God’s church. I condemn you as loathsome in the sight of all men. I condemn you as a noxious curse. If any man or woman approaches you, he or she shall be infected by you.’ He flung the candles down. The flames died beneath the stamp of his shoe. Monks crossed themselves. The Abbot did not.

  ‘This is what we feared,’ he muttered to his assistant.

  Thomas meanwhile ordered, ‘Write the names of the cursed and circulate them throughout the kingdom.’ He added with a note of glee, ‘Knowing our Mother is safe from those men, I’ll need no sleeping draught tonight.’

  The Abbot himself conducted Becket to a chamber painted deep red. ‘Some people believe the two kings, William and Harold, haunt this chamber, for it’s built on the very spot where Harold died. I hope your sleep is peaceful, Lord Archbishop.’

  Becket’s sleep was sweet, but during the night he woke to find Hamelin Plantagenet at the end of the bed. ‘Get out, servile bastard,’ the Archbishop said. The Earl bowed and stepped away into the dark.

  Henry was behind him. Slowly and reverently the King lifted the crown from his head and placed it at the foot of Becket’s bed, then lowered himself in homage. There was a blinding light. The nobles of England stood behind the monarch, their armour dazzling. All fell to their knees in a great silence.

  Hundreds surged, eager to acknowledge Becket as their overlord. Thomas leaned forward, picked up Henry’s crown and fitted it over his own head. When he did, the King leaped up and drew his sword, but Becket snatched the cross from his cross-bearer. As he lifted it, he felt himself caught up in a vortex of fury for everything he had suffered from the Plantagenet. ‘You spurned my love!’ he shouted. Anger flowed like fire down his arms into the cross and it turned molten red. Flames flickered around it, the living fire of heaven. ‘Your sword is dead iron,’ he scoffed. He smote it. It fell from the King’s grasp and hit the floor with a clatter.

  At that sound, a voice rumbled out of the dark. ‘Stop! For the love of heaven, stop!’

  Thomas gasped. ‘Hamelin! Is it you?’

  The merlin stood, large as life, beside the bed. On either side of him reared his animals, two leopards.

  ‘You’ve come to kill me!’

  As Becket spoke, Hamelin and the leopards vanished. His voice boomed again in the dark, but what he said, the Archbishop did not understand until much later.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Winter began. The blessings of Advent arrived to bring repose, peace and joy to all mankind. Fields lay fallow; farm animals were penned; fishermen painted their boats or lay at ease, yarning to each other. The smell of woodsmoke wafted through villages. But there had been no coronation for the Young King. Nor had any of the excommunicants been absolved.

  Across the Narrow Sea, Henry, recovered from fever, prepared for war against Louis. His justiciars joined him in Normandy, where their status as lepers was not known. ‘By ignoring our agreement for his pardon and return as Archbishop, Becket perjures himself again,’ the King said. ‘If I die in the coming battle, my son Henry is to inherit England.’

  The two justiciars moved away to confer. ‘I’ve never heard him speak of death on the battlefield before. And his appearance is unkempt. By defying him, Bec traps our liege in a stalemate. He can’t leave his demesnes to Louis’ assault. Nor can he return to England to assert royal authority.’

  ‘The struggle with Becket takes its toll. But our monarch is a man of resilience.’

  ‘We need his resilience. And resourcefulness. There’s no good time to convey bad news.’

  Richard, who had returned soon after witnessing the Archbishop’s joyous reception in England, sat in a corner of the apartment devising a word puzzle. Four other knights lounged in the royal chamber. Beaumont glanced at them.

  ‘You lot, outside,’ Henry said. Richard placed his puzzle on the royal desk and the five trudged out to a corridor. Only an Angevin page who knew no English was allowed to remain to serve refreshments.

  Beaumont said, ‘Henry, we have reliable information that Becket conspires with William, the new King of Scotland.’

  ‘To what degree?’

  ‘War. William’s forces are insufficient at the moment, but we believe he’ll have assistance from France.’

  ‘Simultaneous attacks?’

  ‘Perhaps not. Louis is anxious to defeat you and may not let go any men before you and he engage. After that, he’ll send mercenaries to William at his own expense.’

  Henry leaped up. ‘Fools! They should attack me at the same time.’ He turned to kiss Beaumont. ‘If they expect to win.’

  As if he had merely been discussing how to plant a garden, he strolled to his desk, sat down and studied the puzzle. The justiciars exchanged glances and shrugged. Henry was counting letters. The puzzle was a ladder, each word ending being the first letter of the succeeding word. In Richard’s elegant designs the ladders could curl back on themselves, forming a circle, so the concluding word ended with the first letter of the opening one. But today he had not had time for this complexity. The puzzle was a plain ladder of fifteen words, straight down the page.

  The King read through the prompts and began writing, but after a moment he stopped and beckoned the Angevin boy.

  The lad’s head popped outside between the doors. ‘His Highness summons you, sirs,’ he said in Angevin. Richard translated, and they filed back to their liege. Henry glowered at his royal knight.

  ‘Piglet, this puzzle defeats me.’ He flicked the parchment across his desk. Richard frowned. The first prompt was ‘one who does not hear’. Henry had written ‘dead’. The second prompt was ‘member of a religious order’. The correct answer was ‘friar’, taking the ‘f’ from what should h
ave been ‘deaf’. But the King had taken the ‘d’ from ‘dead’ and written ‘death’. These answers destroyed the rest of the ladder.

  ‘Sire, may I explain?’

  ‘No.’ Henry was standing again, pacing the apartment. He stopped in front of Richard. ‘Lout, I have a challenge for you and your companions.’

  The five stood to attention.

  ‘The Archbishop has broken the agreement we made for his pardon and return to England. He was to absolve those he excommunicated. More importantly, he was to crown the Young King.’

  The knights muttered, ‘Perjury.’

  Henry glared at Richard, ‘Why did you not offer your services to correct this grievous insult?’

  ‘I failed in my duty, sire.’ Richard fell to his knees and clasped the monarch’s legs.

  ‘You’re to arrest him and return him to Normandy.’

  ‘If he resists?’

  ‘In irons. Louis won’t offer him refuge a second time. Not after I’ve beaten him in this war he seeks.’

  ‘And the Pope?’

  ‘His Holiness says he never wants to see another Englishman.’

  Outside the apartment Richard kissed his friends with excitement. ‘Brito, Hugh, William, Reginald – we’re going to have fun before this year ends!’

  With the monies collected from the Canterbury lands of which he had been caretaker, Ranulf de Broc held a fine Christmas court in his manor house in the town. Among the guests arriving late from other celebrations were the two Sir Richards, Bath and Brito, Hugh de Morville, Reginald FitzUrse and William de Tracy. By climbing onto the roof of the house they could see the throng who crowded the Archbishop’s Christmas court, only the second he had held as Archbishop. ‘Look at them!’ FitzUrse exclaimed. ‘Hundreds. How will we get him away through such a multitude?’

  ‘They vanish like ghosts as soon as they’ve eaten,’ Brito said.

  Morville added, ‘They’ll be there on St John’s Eve for the bonfire, and all of Christmas Day will be coming and going. After that they’ll go home and get drunk.’

  Back inside the warmth of the manor, de Broc had provided as entertainment for his male guests a viewing of the latest candidates for the royal brothels. ‘Admire them, friends. But no more. These lovely flowers remain in perfect bud, unspotted.’

  ‘Not even a chaste kiss?’

  ‘Forbidden. Cow eyes. You may give them cow eyes.’

  Those women who were already ‘members of the royal household’, or were widowed, or could escape their husbands, became objects of ardent affection from the young bloods – in corridors, in stairwells, behind tapestries, in stables and, for a lucky few, in the Broc bedchambers. Richard, though, was busy elsewhere. Years earlier he had heard a story that came back to him now like a lucky penny.

  Under cover of darkness, his friend from the scriptorium showed him to the chamber where whips and hair shirts were stored. ‘I heard a monk say they drive a man insane when he first puts it on. Every demon inside him leaps to the surface of his body, biting his skin, making him want to tear it away. But it also gives a sensation of unassailable power. If he can resist the demons, after some days they begin to leave.’

  The scribe said, ‘I saw a monk leap into the duckpond moments after he donned the hair shirt. He drowned.’

  ‘He jumped?’

  ‘He sort of toppled over.’

  Richard grinned. ‘It’s impossible to move fast inside a hair shirt. They reach down to the knees.’ He chose a large one. ‘I’ll persuade Bec he should wear it as protection.’

  Back at de Broc’s manor he showed the knights the heavy bundle.

  ‘You think he’ll wear this?’ Morville scoffed. ‘They say he only tolerates silk next to his skin.’

  A smile spread slowly across Brito’s face. ‘You, sweetheart, will present yourself to Bec as his friend. “Your Grace, I come to save you from some violent men the King has sent to arrest you for perjury” …’ Richard kissed his lips.

  ‘Why would he believe you?’ de Tracey asked.

  Richard tossed his light brown curls. When he left for an assignation with a lady who had taken his eye, de Tracey asked his three companions, ‘Can we trust him? He may warn Bec to escape.’

  Brito’s black brows bunched. ‘I trust him with my life.’

  ‘You may have to.’

  Next morning at breakfast, on the third to last day of December, the men laughed when Richard entered. ‘A girl!’ they shouted. ‘Sir Richard of Bath turned into a female overnight.’ He was clean-shaven, dressed in a woman’s gown and head covering, his throat and body hidden in the drape of a heavy woollen shawl. He could have been a laundry maid. He did a little dance, kicking his legs and squealing.

  ‘A scribe who is our friend will let you in,’ he told them. ‘Arrive before nightfall.’ After breakfast, he disappeared.

  The compound that enclosed the cathedral, the Archbishop’s palace, the kitchens, dormitories, stables and a dozen other buildings made the church complex a small town. The afternoon drew on. The four armed knights knocked at the main door in the encircling wall. A grey-clad scribe opened it. Wordlessly he pointed at their swords, greaves and helmets, shaking his head. They disarmed and stacked the armour beneath an ancient winter-stricken tree in the courtyard. They also carried irons. Morville hid them under the pile of helmets. The scribe who had let them in hurried away. The knights advanced, looking for someone to address, but the courtyard was empty. Not a soul walked the cloisters.

  ‘We come in the name of the King!’ de Tracey shouted.

  After a while, half a dozen black-robed figures came from the main building.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We want audience with the Archbishop.’

  ‘He’s resting.’

  ‘Kindly bring him to us.’

  ‘His Grace will not answer such a summons.’ They turned and hurried away in their soft-soled shoes.

  Richard, no longer in the female disguise he had used to enter through the villeins’ gate to the cathedral, was now enveloped in a monk’s habit and cowl. He rushed up the narrow stairway from a kitchen to the Archbishop’s private dining chamber, struggling as the cumbersome hair shirt caught itself on ledges. Finally he arrived and dumped the thing on the floor.

  Becket, resting a few yards away, startled at the sound. ‘Who’s there?’ he called. The chamber had been darkened for his nap, wooden shutters over its windows. Only three candles gave light.

  There was a timid knocking on his door; a young monk with bowed head entered. ‘Your Grace …’

  ‘Who are you?’ Becket demanded. His heart leaped inside its cage of ribs.

  ‘I’m Brother Ardwyad, Lord Archbishop. Forgive me for disturbing your rest.’

  At the sound of the monk’s voice, Becket felt an uncontrollable enchantment. Suddenly the years fell away and he remembered a sensation that had overpowered him when he first met Henry. The boy had so bewitched him that he’d tried to ruffle his hair, but the Prince had reared away. ‘I’m not a spaniel, sir,’ he’d said.

  Memory of his faux pas made Becket’s cheeks flush. ‘Ardwyad? I don’t recall that name. Where were you before?’

  ‘Llanbaden Fawr, my lord. My name, Your Grace, has a meaning.’

  ‘I’m sure it does.’ The Welsh, Becket thought. Never give you one word when they can use twenty. But the voice was too beautiful to resist. ‘Tell me its meaning, my child.’

  ‘“Protector” is its meaning, my lord. And it is indeed appropriate, I tell you now, for your lordship is in great danger.’

  Becket sat up. He squinted at the creature who stood before him, but could make out only pure, unblemished skin. His heart fluttered like a frantic bird. ‘What do you mean, I’m in danger?’

  The monk fell to his knees, his lilting voice muffled in the stuff of his robe. ‘Your Grace, in the town I was yesterday. And there on wicked tongues I heard that the King sends men across the sea, men of violence, to arrest you. I beg your pardo
n, my lord. In the town I should not have been. In the tavern I should not have eavesdropped, but all here to me is foreign, so I—’

  ‘Violent men to arrest me? Ard … what’s your name again?’

  ‘Ardwyad, Lord Archbishop. Protector. Protection I’ve brought you. In the chamber where you eat I left it.’

  Becket rang the silk bell pull next to his bed. ‘Thank you. You may leave.’ He found it hard to control his breathing.

  ‘God bless you, Your Grace,’ the young monk said.

  Herbert and two other scholars answered the summons.

  ‘I’ve just had an odd experience. There’s something in my dining room. Would you fetch it, please?’

  Herbert returned with the bundle on his shoulder. Becket felt the hair on his neck stand up. It was an angel! He inhaled before speaking in his sternest tone. ‘Go downstairs, men. Check if strangers have entered the gate.’ My heart told me, as soon as I heard him speak.

  The scholars ran down to the courtyard, where the four knights tramped back and forth bellowing in unison, ‘Send us your Archbishop! We come from the King!’ Clergy cowered against the walls. The scholars bounded back to Becket’s chamber. ‘Four knights sent by the King! They demand to see you.’

  Becket shivered. The angel’s beauty, his heavenly voice … He stared at the hair shirt. ‘My strange visitor told me that thing was for my protection. You’re to put it on me. It is my armour.’

  The scholars helped him out of his undergarments, lifted the shirt over his head and strapped it around his torso and buttocks. Once in place, the wearer could not remove it himself, for it buckled at the back. As the bristles touched Becket’s skin, he gave a cry of shock. A spasm shook his body. ‘It’s made of fire! Take it off me!’ They began to undo the buckles. ‘No! I’ll wear it. It’s hell. This is hell. This is what hell feels like! For all eternity one burns in this fire.’ He trembled like a colt that first feels the bit inside its mouth. The Virgin does this to save me from the King. This pain will be forgotten when she forces him to bow before me – and I stamp on his neck!