‘Very well. I shall judge patiently, if you assure me that Hilary must lose. But if King Stephen could alter the good customs of the Conqueror, I, who have as much power as King Stephen, may change them back again. And I shall.’
‘My advice as a lawyer is that you had that power. But you lost it when you promised at your own coronation that the Church would remain as free as it had ever been. That doesn’t matter for the present. So long as we are polite Rome will always make some sensible arrangement. Look at the fuss over investiture! Yet every King still chooses his Bishops, and Rome is satisfied if he doesn’t actually hand over the crozier. By the way, if you behave properly this case may be a valuable precedent.’
‘What’s that?’ said young Henry, alert. He was genuinely interested in Law, as he was interested in most branches of learning; for he enjoyed stretching his brain.
‘Why, you should have spotted that yourself, but I will explain. Here is a dispute over a purely Church matter. The parties are clerks, and the question one of Canon Law. Can you imagine a suit more clearly within the province of the Church courts? It should have gone to Canterbury, and perhaps on appeal to Rome. If I were still archdeacon I would have protested the moment I heard you were to decide it. That’s one reason why you must give a sound judgement, fit to be enrolled among the records. If the case had been dropped because you were too excited to judge it, that would be as great a blow to your power as the fall of a castle to the French.’
Henry felt more cheerful when he understood that by hearing the case he was encroaching on a rival jurisdiction. In the afternoon the suit proceeded with due decorum.
But Bishop Hilary was really a menace to the peace, Thomas told himself as the Bishop unfolded his reply to the Abbot’s answer. Here was a straight conflict of authority. Undoubtedly William the Conqueror had granted his favourite foundation immunity from episcopal claims; undoubtedly Pope Adrian had commanded the Abbot to submit to the Bishop. In the King’s court the King’s grant must prevail, and the Bishop should accept defeat and try again in the Church court. He need not make offensive speeches. Henry stood quietly, only a tapping foot and a red neck witnessing to his growing anger; until the Bishop introduced what he considered a striking and happy figure of speech. If, he said, a King could release clerks from the jurisdiction of their ecclesiastical superiors, then a Bishop might claim power to release vassals from their allegiance to their secular lords. Henry swallowed hard, and announced through clenched teeth that he felt unwell. He would seek the fresh air while the court adjourned for half an hour.
In the cloisters Thomas and Henry walked apart. Thomas was in high spirits. Since he had first known young Henry he had realized that this was the King England needed after the anarchy of civil war. This youth had it in him to be a great ruler; he was brave and honest and intelligent and amazingly hard-working. His only flaw had been that ungovernable temper. Now, after two years of friendship and patience, he had persuaded Henry to restrain his rage; in a few years he would be the best King since Charlemagne.
Of course Bishop Hilary lost the verdict, after antagonizing every member of the court. The Justiciar, forgetting that as the brother of the defendant he should keep in the background, made a fiery speech in French, relished by his colleagues after the strain of listening to legal arguments in Latin. He reminded his hearers that Battle was the great memorial of the Norman Conquest, whose monks prayed daily for the souls of their gallant ancestors fallen at Hastings. Even now, after ninety years, the English were disloyal at heart; nothing should be done to weaken the title by which every great man in England held his lands.
This argument was well received by its Norman audience, though Thomas the Londoner recognized it as a false appeal to racial prejudice. The division now was not between Norman and English but between rich and poor. He had known a burgess named William fitzAlfred, whose French name did not attempt to disguise the nationality of his English father. Still, these Lucys were Normans of Normandy, not of England; they might not know better. At least, it was a point worth making in a lawcourt, though not in fact true.
Following the Justiciar Thomas also spoke in defence of the monastery. This was necessary because Abbot Walter was no advocate. The charter he produced, with the Conqueror’s seal dangling, was a clumsy forgery, and he had not looked up the authorities on the question of whether a secular ruler might exempt a monastery of his own foundation.
That was the kernel of the question. Thomas could prove by precedent that the founder of a community might lay down any conditions he chose. If the conditions were repugnant to Canon Law the Church should forbid the foundation; but if the endowment was accepted the conditions must be accepted also.
That was enough. But Henry had behaved with great patience, and a little flattery would encourage him in good behaviour. Thomas went on to argue that since a King was the ruler of all his subjects, clerk and lay, he might fix the limits of their jurisdictions. He knew this was unsound law; but it did not affect the issue before them, and it pleased young Henry. He waited for Hilary, the trained canonist, to demolish the argument in his replication. But the Bishop was feeling disheartened, and a little frightened. He acknowledged defeat, and allowed the fallacious argument to pass unchallenged.
Then the King gave judgement, of course in the Abbey’s favour. Bishop Hilary went home at once, which was discourteous but pardonable in the circumstances; and the Abbot of Battle walked to the refectory arm-in-arm with his brother the Justiciar. Thomas retired exhausted to his own pavilion. He had kept the peace, but the case would not help his reputation as a lawyer. There was no getting away from the fact that William the Conqueror had claimed powers over the Church that no Pope would allow to a secular ruler; and he, Thomas the Chancellor, had laid down in public some very wide bounds to the jurisdiction of the crown. If his rivals at the Roman Curia heard of this case they would say he had forgotten his law in the press of state affairs: if they did not call him a time-server who thought only of pleasing the King his paymaster.
But he had persuaded young Henry to restrain his anger; in that cause an unsound argument, which had not in fact decided the suit, was well worth while. He liked young Henry.
On a sunny afternoon of June 1158 the burgesses of Paris crowded the Rouen Gate to see the great procession. The envoy of England came in state, to beg the hand of the lady Margaret for the lord Henry, son of the King of England; and rumour ran that this was the most splendid embassy that had ever come out of Normandy.
It was said that the expedition contained more than a score of splendid carriages, loaded with rich presents for deserving Frenchmen. That attracted the idlers. But wise men came also to see a remarkable sight, an expedition riding in peace from Normandy to Paris. For a hundred years there had been war, or at best truce, between the Ile de France and those pirates downriver. Now the turbulent Duchy had a new ruler, a civilized Frenchman from Anjou; perhaps he would honestly keep his oath of fealty, and there would be enduring peace between Rouen and Paris. It was a good augury that his envoy was a clerk, instead of a hot-tempered warrior; he had studied in the schools of Paris, the best schools in the world; he would appreciate the civilized festivities arranged to entertain him.
Sergeants made a lane through the crowd, and there arose a sound of singing. The onlookers were a little disappointed to see the van of the procession marching on foot. But these singing-men were so well dressed, and walked in such good order, that there must be better to follow. There were five hundred of them, walking two by two, clad in scarlet with the golden leopards of Anjou embroidered on their breasts; they were all yellow-haired young Englishmen, a very handsome sight, and as they walked they sang a wedding-song, their scarlet legs flashing in unison to the lilt of the music. It looked almost as enchanting as if they were dancing.
At last the line of foot ended, and there was a ripple in the crowd as sergeants cried that holy relics were approaching, before which all good Christians must kneel and uncover. A tall spearman
swaggered slowly at the bridle of a huge sumpter-horse; everyone recognized the familiar shape of a portable altar under the silk covering of its load, and the gilded bronze chest by the saddle-horn must contain treasures from the rich Halidom of the Kings of England.
This horse, chosen for his size, bore the most honourable load in the procession. His shoes were of pure silver, and gold thread was plaited in his mane and tail.
Behind the furniture of the royal chapel came eleven other sumpter-horses, whose burdens were less sacred but more immediately interesting. Sicilian silk covered their saddles and reached to the ground; but the small heavy barrels whose shape showed through could only contain money. That must be given away, or at least spent in the shops of Paris; for no one carries money to bear it home again. This should be a most rewarding embassy. On the peak of each saddle sat a captivating little monkey; these were dressed in the same livery as the footmen, down to tiny Angevin leopards on their tunics; and though they were kept in place by chains of gilded bronze they seemed very happy, chattering at the crowd and throwing sweetmeats from little bags open before them.
After the monkeys came the famous four-wheeled carriages of which rumour had spoken. There were only eight of them after all, but even that was a large number in days when goods were normally carried by pack-horse. Each was drawn by a team of five horses, and their sides were decorated with figures of the saints. The loads were hidden under rich carpets, but it was known that they bore the baggage and supplies of the mission.
Now the procession declined into the commonplace. Two hundred knights were more than most burgesses saw at one time, and these were very well armed and mounted; but there was no lack of knights in the Ile de France. Only the more intelligent observers realized that this was a remarkable sight; all these knights served Master Thomas of London, a clerk who held no land but depended for everything on the favour of his lord.
After the knights came the clerks of the Chancery, most of them riding on well-paced Spanish mules. They made up a large group, but a life spent stooping over parchment in a bad light makes a man look dim and unimportant. The crowd began to think the glory of the procession might be over.
But at the end came Master Thomas of London, Chancellor to the King of England. The crowd cheered again, and wise men looked keenly at the real ruler of the greatest state in Christendom, a dominion extending from Scotland to the Pyrenees. He rode a very tall black destrier, so fiery that he needed two scarlet-clad grooms at his head to keep him at a walk. He himself was so tall that the great warhorse seemed a pony. He alone did not wear the King’s scarlet livery; he was clothed from head to foot in bright green (a colour most unfitting for a deacon); even his hood was green, for here no one need be reminded that he was a scholar of Paris. On his feet were spurs of solid gold, and his destrier’s bit, as well as its shoes, were of silver. A heavy sword hung from a baldric of golden thread, and from the jewelled chain at his waist dangled a purple silk purse containing the Great Seal of King Henry. But even the jewelled collar and the ruby ouch which fastened his mantle could not distract the gaze of the onlookers from his face. His thick black hair, too long for a deacon, was confined by a jewelled net; black eyes flashed from his thin white cheeks, and the curve of his nose jutted forth like an eagle’s. The cheers died away; before such a worshipful lord cheering seemed too familiar a greeting.
Nineteen years ago, when Thomas of Cheapside left Paris hurriedly to attend the death bed of his mother, he had worried over how to pay for the journey. Now he was back again. He had never felt so happy in his life.
He knew he was wasting the treasure of King Henry, and he knew he was wasting his own time. The embassy was completely pointless, for the details of the French marriage, the treaty, and the dowry of the bride, had been settled already by correspondence. A good knight with a small escort could have guarded the baby on her journey to her father-in-law.
But Henry had ordered him to make a display. It was important to impress the French, and the King himself refused to pay a state visit. For one thing, it was awkward to be the guest of his Queen’s first husband; Henry had snatched Eleanor after King Louis had considered her unworthy to share his bed, which made social chatter difficult. He would not improve matters if he boasted that he kept her under constant surveillance, so that she would never be free to cuckold him as she had cuckolded Louis at Antioch. However the subject was phrased, both Kings must be aware that Henry had injured his honour by marrying a light woman for her dower.
In the second place, Henry genuinely disliked the state necessary to a King on a visit of ceremony, and he knew Thomas would enjoy it. To Henry, nominal ruler of Normandy since the age of four, pomp was a tiresome reminder of fatherly tutelage.
But Thomas, born well-to-do and then very poor in his youth, revelled in luxury and state. He was indifferent to comfort, or he would not be riding a hot destrier and carrying a heavy sword; but fine clothes, a swarm of over-fed servants, an army of disciplined knights, all reinforced the self-assurance he needed before his mind would work clearly.
He had himself designed this pageant, and there were critics who held that his arrangements betrayed the burgess spirit of a drysalter aping nobility. The monkeys on the sumpter-horses might be a legitimate touch of fantasy, but silver bits and silver horse-shoes mocked the dignity of a well-bred destrier; no knight who was the son of a knight would have ridden thus.
Thomas was glad to see his procession directed right across Paris to the splendid fortress of the Templars, the most noble lodging that could be offered to a distinguished visitor. The King of France was entering into the spirit of this comedy of grandeur. The embassy had no business except to entertain and be entertained, and the lord who gave the most splendid banquet might consider himself victorious. King Louis had struck the right note at the start.
That evening, when Thomas sent out his stewards to buy provisions for a great feast, they returned almost at once with a disturbing report. Butchers and vintners had shown them the best, but when it came to discussing prices they had refused to name a figure; in his good town of Paris King Louis was host to the envoy of his vassal the Duke of Normandy; let the guests take what they would, and the King of France would pay.
‘Now that’s a very pretty gesture,’ said Thomas. ‘I wish I had foreseen it. But King Louis forgets that I know Paris. Go out and wander by the south bank of the river among the scholars from Normandy. You ought to find them in a tavern just to the left of the bridge; it used to be the Green Man, but the sign may have altered. When you find a Norman tall enough for me to wear his gown fetch him here at once.’
Late that night, after the shops were closed, a tall middle-aged scholar in a shabby gown disturbed the rest of the greatest vintner in Paris.
‘Goodman Peter, if you saw the Norman embassy arrive you will have noticed certain waggons loaded with silver. I am not connected with that embassy, I am a humble scholar planning a party to celebrate a successful disputation in the schools. However, I have access to the silver-chests of Master Thomas the Chancellor. If you send me as many tuns as I choose of your very best wine (and I can tell the best at one sip) you will be paid in silver before sunset. On the other hand, if you take the tallies to the Treasurer of King Louis how soon do you think you will be paid? These are the pennies struck by the English King; pure silver and even weight. You need not weigh them one by one, as with the deniers of France, minted by a score of different magnates, all greedy. Is that settled? Then you may lead me to your cellars.’
Thomas also produced a novelty to make his party a success. He had brought with him two waggon-loads of English ale. The casks were broached at the main gate of the Templars’ fortress, where all comers might sample the new drink while the King of France was feasted within.
The great party was an unqualified success. With the friendly advice of Norman scholars Thomas had chosen the most fashionable cooks and provision-shops; the crowd at the gate pronounced the new drink to be if anything better
than wine, ‘equally strong and of a more pleasing flavour’. Of course they said that because they had got it for nothing, but even so the brewers of London might reap some advantage. As for the food, it pleased even the discriminating palates of the French court. Thomas had chosen a Friday for his feast, since anyone with a forest can offer his guests sound venison but only a connoisseur can plan a good dinner on a day of abstinence. Among other things, he had bought up all the eels in the Ile de France, at a total cost of £100.
Such profusion smacked of vulgarity. But the money was there, and Thomas had been ordered to spend it for the greater glory of his master. He could not spend it on his own dress or the livery of his household, for both were already suitable for an exceptionally prosperous Emperor; a dinner such as no reigning prince could match was the easiest way of proving that Henry of England was the greatest King in the world.
During the next week the French court did what they could to match the splendour of this magnificent servant of a magnificent King; they could not hope to surpass him. In the intervals of ceremony Thomas visited his old lecture-rooms. At thirty-nine he still felt a young man, and thanks to clean living and temperence he looked younger than his age; but of course to the scholars he was a revenant from a past so ancient they could hardly conceive it, an epoch when the grey beard of the janitor outside the school of Civil Law had been brown. They talked to him freely, but found it hard to believe that twenty years ago the schools of Paris had been much as they were to-day.
They were not particularly impressed by his success. He had been a scholar like themselves, and they expected, if they worked hard, to find posts as grand as his; that was why they were studying in Paris. The real lovers of learning could not spare time to gossip with a mere politician; they despised him for his humdrum work, and themselves looked forward without regret to an old age of learned poverty.
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