God and My Right

by Alfred Duggan

  Thomas passed his mornings at work in the Chancery; in the afternoon he usually rode with the King, either hunting or to keep up with the journeys of the wandering court. Only in the evening was he his own master.

  Even that was an innovation. The old establishment which fixed the Chancellor’s wage at five shillings a day (ten times the pay of a knight, and the highest wage in the government), added elaborate regulations for his diet on the assumption that he would dine in the King’s hall. When this wage was fixed the Chancellor had been the King’s private secretary, not his chief minister. Now Thomas was the second ruler of the realm. Wherever the court might halt the Chancellor dined with his own household.

  This might be in one of his pavilions, but if it were possible he preferred a permanent building. In most places a magnate or religious community would be glad to offer hospitality to such a great man. Of course his baggage contained appropriate furniture. Even when he stopped only for one night he was surrounded by familiar possessions, trestle tables, long benches, a few high chairs with carved backs for distinguished visitors, windows of linen against the draught, an oratory with folding pictures of saints, a press for his breviary and law-books.

  Very often the Halidom was housed in the next room. The Halidom was the collection of holy relics that accompanied the King of England to bring him luck; the collection had been founded by St. Edward the Confessor, but every King after, even the wicked Rufus, had added to it. There was nothing in it quite so numinous as the hood of St. Martin of Tours which brought the King of France victory over his enemies, but it was a very great treasure; and the Chancellor was its official custodian.

  Thomas’s hall was noted for comfort as well as splendour. Every day the old rushes were thrown out, and fresh brought in; they were scented with meadow-flowers in summer, and with sweet hay in winter; at the end of the room they were heaped up in bundles to serve as seats for unimportant or uninvited guests who could not find room on the benches.

  For the Chancellor’s kitchen was as famous as his hall. Trouveres admitted that even in Provence one did not dine so well. The wine was chosen personally by the host, and his cooks were the most skilful in the realm; any stranger was admitted without question, and the doorkeepers would allot him the place appropriate to his rank.

  King Henry dined with his Chancellor whenever he could, which was not very often; usually he had his own distinguished guests to entertain. But foreign envoys were never eager to dine with the King, since his food was notoriously poor and he himself so impatient that there was never time to eat it. Henry complained, in jest, that ambassadors to his court were nearly always to be found sharing the luxurious meals of the Chancellor.

  The pomp of the Chancellor’s household was as magnificent as the food. Thomas knew how things should be done, and he was determined that no carping foreigners would find anything amiss in the hall of England’s greatest magnate. Even in time of peace two hundred knights lent splendour to the scene, and the servants, in scarlet liveries, were clean and expert at their trade. King Henry admired a pomp he himself was too impatient to endure; in the winter of 1160 he sent his heir, five-year-old Henry fitzHenry, to be ‘nourished’ and trained in courteous living by the Chancellor. Other magnates followed his example, and soon there was a crowd of noble youths and children sitting gravely at a lower table, learning to listen patiently to trouverses, to refrain from throwing food to the dogs, to offer their neighbours the wine-cup while it was still full.

  It was hard work presiding with dignity over all this state, after a busy morning in the office and a long afternoon in the saddle. But Thomas enjoyed it. He was the Chancellor, and for every moment of the day he behaved as such. He hardly thought of himself as a person. The Chancellor must ride a fierce destrier, the Chancellor must give generous alms to the poor, the Chancellor should dress in splendid clothes which indicated that he was at the same time clerk, warrior and lawyer; since he was the Chancellor he must do these things.

  Except for his dear friend Henry fitzEmpress he was quite alone in the world. He never saw his sisters, and he had no other kin save remote cousins he had never met. Occasionally a merchant would turn up at his door with a story of having befriended an obscure clerk in the London of King Stephen; these ancient kindnesses were amply repaid, for Thomas made no secret of his early struggles; but he had finished with mercantile life, and he was glad of it. He was too busy to talk over old times.

  He had little in common with the other courtiers. Dashing warriors were frightened of so learned a clerk, though if he had nothing better to do he could chat with them easily about jousting or falcons. The clerks at court were a frivolous set, devoting what leisure they could spare from their mistresses to composing silly riddles and catch questions in theology; they avoided the company of this enormously wealthy deacon who had preserved his chastity, because he made them feel uncomfortable. On the other hand, holy Abbots and Bishops who visited the King to discuss ecclesiastical appointments took it for granted that such a splendid figure must be a worldly debauchee.

  Being Chancellor to King Henry, and his most trusted friend, occupied all his time.

  Occasionally there came a reminder of his old life. Archbishop Theobald was ailing, in his palace at Canterbury; but he heard tales of the Chancellor’s magnificence. To a holy monk of Bec such a life seemed unworthy of his old archdeacon; but there had been good in the lad, and if he were recalled to his duty his soul might yet be saved. The Archbishop sent messengers summoning Thomas to Canterbury for a long visit. Thomas replied that he could not spare the time.

  It was hard for an old man sitting quiet in Canterbury to find out the truth about Master Thomas the Chancellor. There was nothing to go on except his public record, and that might be interpreted in many ways. Certainly he had opposed the great wickedness of the marriage between the lady Mary, daughter of old King Stephen, and Count Matthew, younger brother of the Count of Flanders. That had been a revolting business; not consanguinity for once, though that was the usual bar to a marriage within the ruling class. This was much worse, for the lady Mary was a professed nun, actually Abbess of Barking. The marriage had gone through, because this is a wicked world. The magnates favoured it, glad to get a daughter of the late King out of the country before someone raised a rebellion in her name. Perhaps the Pope had dispensed her from her vows, though the story was told in more than one version. At least the Chancellor had spoken against it in full council, so strongly that the Count of Flanders had sworn to be revenged on him.

  Thus his good advice had been overborne, though when he gave wrong advice it was immediately carried into effect. At the outset of the War of Toulouse Thomas had spoken in favour of a proposal to levy scutage from those Abbeys which held land by knights’ service. The Abbots had been screwing up their courage to refuse, and his intervention tipped the scale against them. Perhaps his advice was sound in law, for there was no precedent. But Master Thomas had advocated taking money from Abbeys to give it to a lay ruler. Whatever the exact letter of the law that showed a reprehensible levity, a willingness to desert the clerkly order. Every clerk should stand by every other clerk, without bothering over the rights of the matter in dispute. Master Thomas was not whole-hearted in his calling.

  Now he careered about England and France on a fierce destrier, which they said he guided with a silver bit; that was not only unclerkly, it was downright vulgar. But then Thomas of Cheapside had been born vulgar. To Theobald of Thierceville there was nothing essentially noble in Norman blood; he remembered the little Becket holding beside the brook.

  The old man roused himself to write a really stiff letter, bidding Master Thomas drop whatever he was doing and come at once to Canterbury; if he disregarded the command of his Archbishop, who had conferred on him the order of deacon and received his oath of obedience, let him beware of excommunication. That should fetch the lad as fast as a ship could carry him. Here Theobald paused, to recall that the lad was now forty-two years of age, and engaged
on important business. But at Canterbury he was needed for important business. There must soon be a vacancy in the Metropolitan See, and the Archbishop considered it his duty to look over a possible successor.

  In March 1161 the court lay at Rouen, for once fairly stationary. Thomas disregarded the stream of letters from the Archbishop. He was not anxious to return to a household where he had been mocked: ‘Bailhache’ indeed! Roger, who had mocked him, was now Archbishop of York, still as spiteful towards the King’s Chancellor as he had been towards the archdeacon; but at Canterbury there would be other clerks who remembered the old unpleasantness.

  Finally came a letter threatening excommunication unless he obeyed the command of his Ordinary. Thomas was in half a mind to comply, until Henry persuaded him to stay where he was needed. The King pointed out that Archbishops were inclined to give orders to every clerk anywhere, without considering the bounds of their canonical authority; Theobald of Canterbury had no standing in the Province of Rouen. If Thomas had been asked to come, for the sake of old friendship, then he might have gone; but in face of an order he must stand on his rights.

  In April Theobald died. Thomas mourned the old friend of his father, the kindly master who had started him on his great career. He was sorry he had been unable to visit his death bed. But now there were other things to think about. After twenty-two years the Metropolitan See of Canterbury was vacant. For the present its revenues would flow into the King’s Treasury, but unless it was filled within a reasonable time the Pope would complain.

  6. The Archbishop

  Canon Law lays down only one method of filling a vacant Bishopric. The canons of the cathedral chapter must meet to elect a new Bishop. In theory their choice is unfettered; any male Christian of full age, whether clerk or lay, is eligible. If the chapter neglect their duty, and the See remains vacant for a scandalously long period, the Pope may provide a Bishop of his own choice. No one else has a voice in the matter.

  But the facts do not always square with the letter of Canon Law. In fact the monks of Christ Church who formed the chapter of Canterbury Cathedral were unimportant clerks in a backwater of England and the Archbishop whom they must choose would be the first magnate of the realm, the traditional representative of the people in face of an absolute ruler. Since St. Anselm had openly rebuked Rufus for sodomy the Archbishop of Canterbury had been more than merely head of the clergy in the south of England.

  The chapter might not hold an election until they had received specific permission from the King; and the King would not grant permission until he had come to some unofficial understanding with the Pope. Meanwhile the King enjoyed a great increase of revenue, and for at least a year there was no need to take a definite step.

  Of course Thomas talked over the question with his dear friend Henry. ‘Luckily,’ he said, ‘we have an obvious candidate, born in England, of good Norman family, and already a Bishop. He is also a devout monk, trained at Cluny, a clerk of exemplary life and a competent man of business. In case you are too intent on repairing that broken dagger to guess the man I mean I shall tell you his name. Bishop Gilbert of Hereford is clearly destined to be the next Archbishop of Canterbury.’

  Henry grunted, for he held an end of waxed thread between his teeth. The two friends sat alone in the greenwood, munching bread and cheese; at the end of the glade huntsmen were busy round the carcass of a stag, and grooms walked horses lest they take cold after the gallop.

  The King looked round to make sure they could not be overheard.

  ‘I respect Gilbert,’ he answered. ‘He’s intelligent. He kept Hereford straight during the years of anarchy. He has done homage to a King of England, though the King was Stephen. Still, that binds him to me. I must have an Archbishop who is already my man. Look at the fuss they make in the Empire over Bishops doing homage to temporal rulers. We avoid that in England by electing only those clerks who have already done homage. And yet I don’t know. Gilbert is a dry old stick. Have you ever heard him make a joke? And he was very unhelpful over that London affair. He directly refused my request.’

  ‘He was quite right, as you know very well. London needs its own Bishop. The money comes in very handy, but we can’t expect the See of Hereford to pay a Bishop to look after London. We shall have to find someone for London sooner or later. If we can’t think of anyone better I might take on the job myself.’

  ‘What would happen to my Chancery? I wouldn’t know whether I had any money or not. I can’t understand your accounts, my dear merchant of Cheapside, and privately I suspect you don’t understand them yourself. But with you in charge there always seems to be silver in the Treasury. Probably some of it comes from your benefices, if the truth were known. You see why I can’t do without you?’

  ‘Accounts were never my strong point, even when I worked for that scoundrel Osbert Huitdeniers. I never remember how much money I have, or whether it came from your Exchequer or my benefices. If it goes farther than it used to that is because I keep an eye on my subordinates. But of course I can’t plan ahead when I don’t know which magnates will die during the year and what relief their heirs will pay. If you had Euclid for your Chancellor he would be beaten by that same trouble. You ought to arrange a scheme by which the magnates pay you a regular sum every year, instead of a relief whenever a fief changes hands.’

  ‘And get them to pay reliefs in addition, eh? That sounds a good idea, if the magnates would stand for it. But no Norman gentleman who carries a sword would pay taxes every year; the greatest tyrant on earth couldn’t make them do it. So you can’t have London, my bold and covetous deacon. And Gilbert can’t have Canterbury because I couldn’t stand his saintly Cluniac face at every meeting of the council. Why don’t you take Canterbury? You could hold it with the Chancery.’

  ‘My dear Henry, you’re crazy,’ said Thomas, without bothering to look up from the blade of grass he was chewing. ‘For one thing I am known far and wide as the most worldly clerk in your realm; the whole Church would be shocked. For another, I couldn’t do the extra work. Keeping your conduct within the broad limits allowed to a Christian King takes all my time. If I had to fit being an Archbishop into the odd hours of the day I should never again sit at my ease in the greenwood.’

  ‘While things go well Canterbury has less business than most Diocesan Bishops, though he must look after his own Diocese. Nowadays all the appeals go over his head to Rome. The Curia would appreciate a Metropolitan who was busy with secular affairs. The Cardinals could deal direct with the Bishops, and everyone would be satisfied.’

  ‘You make it sound attractive. Thomas Becket of Cheapside, Primate of All England! Well, Caligula made his horse a Consul, but I can’t think of another parallel. Poor old Theobald! He was a holy monk, and a great scholar. How angry he would be to hear us agreeing that the Archbishop of Canterbury has very little business! He worked all the hours of daylight, and never caught up with his arrears; but then before I took over the archdeaconry his papers were in a frightful muddle.’

  The subject dropped while they sat silent, watching the flight of a jay. In the distance a forester blew a single note, the signal that his lymner had found the trace of a hart. The King sprang to his feet, brushing crumbs from his tunic. As he rose also, Thomas spoke casually: ‘You must make up your mind about Canterbury. The monks of Christ Church will soon be pressing for leave to elect. In the end who will you choose? Gilbert of Hereford, I suppose. There isn’t anyone else.’

  Hunting in the woods of Normandy during that peaceful summer, the King several times returned to the question of the vacancy at Canterbury. Henry disliked to feel that his mind was being made up for him; the fact that everyone took it for granted that Gilbert Foliot of Hereford would be the next Archbishop was one reason why he turned against it.

  Gilbert possessed every qualification; not only was he a Cluniac monk of unblemished life, and a gentleman of Norman blood, connected with all the great houses of the Welsh March; he was second only to Thomas as a lawyer and ma
n of affairs. He would make a saintly ceremonial head, and at the same time look after the legal and financial affairs of the Church in England. During the civil war he had followed the Bishop of Winchester; that meant frequent changes of side; but on the whole, like the Bishop of Winchester, he had supported the Angevins more often than the party of Blois. There seemed to be nothing against him.

  Unfortunately he was ambitious, and surrounded by flatterers who saw him as the next Archbishop. Indiscreetly, he began to talk of what he would do when he was installed at Canterbury, and boasted that his opposition to the King’s plan for London had been justified by events. This boasting, and the reminder of his past opposition, decided the King.

  One morning, when Thomas was working as usual in the Chancery, Henry strolled in to stand over him, cocking one leg on the table. ‘Well,’ he said cheerfully, ‘what is it this time? Another letter to the Emperor about the wrongs of those goldsmiths in Cologne? Let it wait. The Emperor usually takes a month to answer my letters. Why should we answer his complaints on the day we receive them? And while we are on the subject of the Emperor, can you tell me who is his Chancellor?’