Thomas had considered paying the debts of those scholars who were King Henry’s vassals. That would enhance the glory of his master more than banquets; a scholar free from debt was a rarer marvel even than a dish of eels worth £100. But his steward told him that even his waggon-loads of money would not be enough to pay the debts of all the Norman scholars, from Normandy or England, who thronged the schools of Paris. They could manage, for their creditors were patient. Then a clerk said in jest that the real benefactors of learning must be these patient creditors, and Thomas was pleased with the idea. He gave a great feast to all the booksellers, tavern-keepers, and owners of lodging-houses who had allowed Norman scholars to run up bills. It was a remarkable party, much talked of in Paris; so it could be considered part of the campaign to enhance the prestige of King Henry. It helped the scholars also, for after such a public compliment to their forbearance their creditors were unlikely to press them in future.
Presently it was time to return to Normandy with the Lady Margaret of France, two years old and betrothed to Henry fitzHenry, aged three. It had been an enjoyable visit, and a great deal of money had been spent. The King of England and his mighty Chancellor would be famous throughout Christendom; and if nothing useful had come of the embassy no harm had been done.
Thomas had behaved correctly. His habitual state might be rather too grand, in fact a little vulgar; but the mob must be dazzled, and if King Henry preferred the simple life the dazzling became his Chancellor’s duty. In Paris he had mixed easily with the highest in the land, talking falconry with the King and jousting with the great magnates, as though his father had been a Count instead of a drysalter. He owed these easy manners to the lord Richer de I’Aigle; he was grateful, and remembered him daily in his prayers.
In October 1159 Henry King of England lay encamped with his power in the thrice-ravaged Vexin, the ever-disputed borderland between Normandy and the Ile de France. The army of France lay within a day’s march, and a battle might decide the war to-morrow. But Henry knew there would be no battle. Battles hardly ever happened; in all his mother’s long wars there had been only one battle, at Lincoln, and it made no difference to the final outcome. If Louis marched against him it would be because the French were stronger, and he would retire to his nearest castle; if the French stayed where they were they might presently be driven by lack of food to retire, and then he could advance to ravage deeper into their land. But probably the clerks would soon fix up a truce, so that everyone could go home before winter. It was hard to remember what this war was about, and no one was very interested in it.
King Henry had led his mesnie since he was old enough to sit a horse, and his courage was unquestioned. But he did not really care for war. It was wasteful and untidy; and it interfered with the great object of his life, the restoration of order in his realm after the long chaos of the civil wars. This evening, as he strolled from the horse-lines to his own pavilion, he was not really thinking about the next step in the campaign, the excuse on which he had dismissed his attendants; he was thinking about his Chancellor.
Who would have guessed that the busy archdeacon, the clever negotiator, the learned lawyer who could advise on every code, Civil Law, Canon Law, or the queer unwritten customs of England, would also find himself at home in the unfamiliar business of campaigning? Of course he was a Norman, and every Norman was a warrior born; he had passed part of his youth in a great castle, but he had been learning so many other things as well that he could hardly have enjoyed much knightly training.
Yet now he led the largest mesnie in the army, 700 knights, 1,400 sergeants, and 4,000 foot. He paid the men himself, though presumably with the King’s money which he used as his own. Since his mesnie was the best disciplined and best equipped, as well as the strongest, the money was well spent.
His men were well led too, and followed him eagerly. At the capture of Cahors he had ridden in front like a gentleman, and then taken trouble to see the booty fairly distributed. It seemed there was nothing Thomas could not do, and do well.
He was never out of temper, or sulky, or wanting to sit quiet and nurse a headache. It was hard to remember he was more than forty years old, which was middle age by any reckoning and senescence unimaginable to the twenty-six-year-old Henry. He was as thin as a lad of fifteen, and fit enough to ride with the King, who had grown used to seeing strong warriors pull up during his amazing forced marches. He was the best companion any young King could desire.
Sometimes he seemed to be shaming his lord into better conduct than suited the royal inclination; but it was always done tactfully. Henry had not let himself go, in the good old way so admired in his nursery, since that suit over Battle Abbey when Thomas had been so annoyed with him and yet had gained the only reasonable verdict. (That had been a useful suit. Bishop Hilary had learned his lesson. Now he was a loyal adviser when tricky cases came before the Roman Curia.) It was easier to be self-controlled in wartime, when rage could be worked off legitimately by battering a French knight with a heavy sword.
The other striking occasion when Thomas seemed to have gone out of his way to rebuke Henry for his sins was more puzzling. But Thomas was a puzzling character. He lived like a very great lord, with splendid servants and a magnificent kitchen; his dress was richer than any clerk had been known to wear; he seemed to enjoy all the good things of life, all the luxuries denounced by popular preachers when they had nothing more novel to attack. Yet you might equally well argue that he lived like a monk. He fasted rigidly, even on campaign; though he offered his guests whatever their consciences would allow them to take. Though the furniture of his bed was the best English embroidery, and the hangings of his pavilion stamped Spanish leather, he lay on a hard straw mattress, under a single coverlet of Sicilian silk, whatever the weather. What he sought was display, not comfort.
Perhaps on that morning at Northampton he had not designed to make Henry feel uncomfortable. The affair was not of the King’s contriving; it had been a practical joke among the junior clerks in the Chamberlain’s department. Everyone knew about the young woman in Northampton; of course it was sinful, but Kings must not be judged by the standards of ordinary men. It was not as though he lived regularly with a mistress, like some wicked rulers; there were just these girls dotted about his domains, available when needed but not forced on the attention of society; the Queen had no cause for complaint. After all that gossip about the Chancellor being still a virgin at the age of forty it had seemed a good joke to push him into Mahault‘s lodging when they rode into Northampton after dark, in pouring rain; there had been bets on the result. Henry had known of it but the idea was not his in the first place. In fact he had pointed out that it was a poor subject for betting, since no one could trust the account Mahault would give in the morning. All the same, it was a harmless practical joke, the kind of thing any clerk must bear with good grace if he chose to live among lusty warriors.
It had not seemed so funny in the morning, when a group of gay young men called to inquire how the Chancellor had slept, sharing a single bed with one of the less important of the King’s whores. They had found the bed undisturbed; Thomas was on his knees by the screens and Mahault kneeling in prayer at the far end of the little house. She would tell them nothing of what had passed; all she wanted, she said, were the wages due to her; with that money for dowry she would be accepted in a good nunnery.
Thomas had never since referred to that night; unless when he said a few days later that a King must think of his subjects as persons, not as things put into the world for his convenience; as though anyone except a preacher could think of that little strumpet as a person, with a soul. But then a clerkly training often broke through in the conversation of the most worldly official. With Thomas you never knew where you were. Perhaps that was part of his attraction.
At present he was throwing himself into the task of helping his friend Henry to make head against Louis of France. It was really wonderful how he produced money when it was needed, and kept the ar
my fed and contented. His only fault was that he seemed too eager for glory; such a useful life should not be imperilled in petty skirmishes at the outposts. But Henry, like every other warrior, knew that most of his friends would die in battle, and it might be to-morrow.
After four years of friendship Henry felt he understood Thomas’s character. The Chancellor was always standing outside himself, looking to see how a man in his position was expected to behave. His chastity and sobriety showed that he was not really devoted to a life of luxury; he thought the Chancellor of a great King should live splendidly, and he kept such state as he considered fitting. For the last year, campaigning against Toulouse and now against France, he had seen himself as a valiant knight. At any moment he might think it his duty, in his capacity as a noble warrior, to undertake some desperate enterprise. And yet, his friend felt, Thomas was not either a royal official or a gallant knight; those were only capacities in which he chose at present to appear. What he was underneath Henry did not yet know, and probably Thomas did not know either.
Meanwhile it might be a good idea to ride out for a last look at the French; he should be able to tell from the size of their cooking-fires whether they were thinking of breaking camp. But as Henry turned back to the horse-lines he was halted by a remarkable sight. Riding through the camp, surrounded by cheering sergeants, was an immensely tall warrior in full mail. In the glare of torches that figure was unmistakable, though the newfangled close helm hid his face completely; three birds blazoned black on his shield confirmed his identity, for Thomas had remembered that in some parts of England choughs were known as beckets, and he had chosen his arms in proud emphasis of his obscure origin. His horse was blown and sweating; he carried no lance, but with his right hand led a riderless destrier beside him.
‘Thomas, have you been jousting while I pottered round the horse-lines?’ shouted Henry. ‘Are you the King, and I the clerk?’
‘It was nothing of importance, my lord,’ Thomas answered, catching very well the quiet matter-of-fact tone in which the best knights recounted their exploits (no boasting, of course; but give every detail so that the trouveres can boast for you later on). ‘I knew you were busy, and I did not wish to disturb you. When a champion rode out from the French camp to challenge us I thought I would try my luck. His challenge had to be accepted, or our army would have been discouraged; and I was the man of highest rank present. I was lucky. At the first encounter he went over the tail of his horse. He was unhurt, but when he scrambled to his feet and drew his sword I thought the affair had gone far enough. So I didn’t try to bring him in. I just took his destrier as a trophy of victory. The horse-trappings are those of the lord Engelram de Trie. Is he a well-known jouster?’
‘Engelram de Trie? Not a famous champion, but a useful man with a lance all the same,’ said Henry, who knew by repute every prominent jouster in Christendom. ‘You were lucky to overthrow him so quickly. I would have backed him to unhorse any clerk in the world; so don’t you accept any more challenges. Now is the time for you to retire, with an unbeaten record.’
‘Oh, I shan’t do it again. It doesn’t really agree with me. But I am glad to know I can joust if I am put to it.’
Thomas was thankful for the close helm hiding his face. His cheeks streamed with sweat and his lips were bleeding where he had bitten them in his struggle for self-control. He had won a harder battle than any joust. Something about the swagger of the French champion had made him lose his temper, and he had ridden out in a reckless fever of rage. The red mist, which had not risen for twenty years, had come back in full force. When that beastly Frenchman was stretched on the ground he had longed to trample him under the hooves of his destrier; the warrior’s fury in his breast had been terrifying. He had ridden back at once because he had no idea what he would do next if he continued to fight.
But he could not explain this to Henry, who gloried in losing his temper.
He noted also that the King was a little put out to see his Chancellor win fame as a jouster. There must be some field in which the younger man could outdistance his vassal. The difference in their ages was the awkward one of fourteen years. Had he been definitely of an older generation he might have received the deference even Kings owe to age; now he spoke and thought of himself as a contemporary, but half the events he mentioned in casual conversation had happened when Henry was too young to be aware of them.
The immediate past, the years before Henry reached the throne, was an awkward topic. Henry frowned if he heard mention of King Stephen, though he had recognized Stephen as King when he sealed the Treaty of Winchester. Yet if you spoke of the Empress as the rightful ruler of England Henry must feel uncomfortable about her present situation; supplanted, without any formal act of abdication, and living powerless in a quiet Norman castle.
Fighting his inclination to unreasonable rage, fighting the wiles of luxury which appealed to his dramatic instinct, fighting the temptations of the flesh to which most clerks in his situation would have succumbed, Thomas found life as the King’s closest counsellor and friend a considerable strain. But it was worth it, to restore order in England, to use his mind at its utmost stretch. Now it seemed the more worth while; he was a knight, who had at last found a lord worthy of his loyalty. He had given Henry his fealty: together they would spend their lives on the difficult and rewarding task of welding England, Normandy, Maine, Aquitaine and Anjou into the most prosperous and best-governed dominion in Christendom.
In November there was a truce with France, which in 1160 became full peace. For the first time for more than twenty years no English lord might lawfully gather his vassals for war. But after such an interval of anarchy only the eye of the King could enforce the King’s Peace, and Henry rode incessantly from province to province of his wide-flung dominions. He must do justice from York to Bordeaux every year.
Where the King rode his Chancellor must ride also, carrying his papers with him. When they stopped, seldom for more than one night, there was never room enough for everybody; half the court must lodge in peasants’ huts, or bivouac in the open air. For offices the Chancery used tents, great pavilions of strong canvas stretched on many poles, the peaked roofline resembling a row of gabled cottages; the effect was of a spacious hall, though stifling hot in summer and bitter cold in winter.
Henry had no capital city. You could not leave the archives in Westminster, or Rouen, or Le Mans, until the government finished its tour, for the government was always on tour. Every current record must travel with the court, though the King rode sixty miles a day. The mainspring of the Chancery, round which all else revolved, was the Great Roll of the Pipe; a new roll was started on the first day of each year, the 25th of March, with a copy of the first public document engrossed that year; the second document was stitched to the bottom of the first, until after a few months the roll was so thick that it did in fact resemble a drainpipe. There was no index, naturally, and the only way to consult a letter in the middle was to unroll the whole thing on the floor; but there was no other way of carrying government records on mule-back.
On arrival the Chancery’s first task was to install the Pipe Roll at one end of a trestle table, and the screw and matrix of the Great Seal at the other. Then servants would light as many candles as they could find in the new billet. But as far as possible the drafting of important documents was postponed until morning; for no one wrote clearly and elegantly, as befitted the clerks of a great King, by the light of smelly candles.
There was a great deal of work, for the dominions of Anjou bordered nearly every important power in Christendom. It was wise to keep on good terms with the Emperor, to safeguard English trade with the Low Countries; the Kings of Aragon and Navarre expected help in their perpetual warfare with the Moors; raids over the northern border called for frequent correspondence with the King of Scots; and the King of France, with the Counts of Brittany and Toulouse, were always raising intricate questions of boundaries or allegiance.
But the Norman world extend
ed far beyond the borders of Anjou. Every Norman magnate had cousins in the crusading states of Outremer, and Sicily was ruled by an independent, parallel Norman aristocracy (for its original conquerors had been middle-class adventurers). Relations with that rich kingdom were delicate, for Henry, as Duke of Normandy, felt that he should rule the whole Norman race, a point of view the King of Sicily did not share.
Besides foreign affairs the Chancery managed the King’s dealings with the Church. That meant in practice financial dealings only, for a secular ruler could not meddle in spiritual matters. When Bishoprics and Abbacies lay vacant their revenues were paid to the King, and when the vacancies came to be filled, by the free election of the canons or monks concerned, the King’s wishes carried great weight; how much weight was better left undefined, so long as the electors did not flout him deliberately. Thomas knew that by the letter of Canon Law the secular lord had no standing in an election; but if his desires were discreetly made known they were usually discreetly fulfilled.
Negotiations with the Pope might be considered both foreign policy and Church affairs. But in prosperous times there should be no such negotiations. Archbishop Theobald was Legate for all England, including the Province of York; if the Pope wrote to the King direct it must be either to rebuke the sins of his private life or to reiterate the everlasting appeal for a Crusade.
Documents dealing with all these subjects passed under the Great Seal, and while the court was constantly on the move the best place to file them was in the memory of the Chancellor. Thomas had a great deal to do.
That was partly because Henry himself worked hard at the business of governing. Though he insisted on spending long hours in the forest, and must fill other hours with the necessary duty of campaigning (which did not amuse him), he got through an amazing mass of business. He liked to do two things at once; using his hands to mend a hawking-jess or a spur-strap while he talked politics, or discussing strategy while he paced the nave of some great church, technically hearing Mass. Nowadays his temper was usually under control, for there was little to annoy him; but at any moment he might burst into an Angevin rage, writhing on the floor and chewing anything within reach. When that happened Thomas would draw himself up and walk away in outraged dignity. This treatment worked unless some foolish magnate expressed admiration at the remarkable fury of his lord, and encouraged him in his belief that if he allowed his frenzy to possess him he would eventually get his own way in everything.
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