God and My Right

by Alfred Duggan

  He could see that his order was disliked. There was a little stir, and Gilbert of London opened his mouth to protest; after a sharp exclamation he closed it again, for there was nothing he could say unless he was prepared to rebel against his lawful superior.

  After a pause Thomas continued: ‘Furthermore, even if these men shrink from laying hands on my person, I understand that they intend to pronounce some penalty against their spiritual pastor, which is sacrilege and a breach of Canon Law. Therefore I give public notice, before my brethren as witnesses, that I appeal to the Pope against any sentence unjustly passed on me by this tribunal of laymen.’

  ‘Remember that at Clarendon you swore never to appeal to the Pope without first seeking leave from the King,’ Gilbert retorted at once.

  ‘Nevertheless, I appeal.’

  ‘Then I appeal also,’ the Bishop of London went on. He paused to frame his sentence in legal form, and continued: ‘I appeal to the Pope against my Metropolitan, who has commanded me to excommunicate loyal servants of the King if they execute the lawful orders of the ruler to whom they have sworn homage. Until my appeal has been determined I am free to disregard this command of my Metropolitan. My brethren, have I stated the law correctly?’

  ‘That is the law,’ said Thomas before anyone else could speak. ‘You are free to disregard my command, until the Pope orders you to obey it. Do any more of my suffragans appeal against me?’

  He could feel the red mist stirring in his brain, but with a mighty effort he calmed his anger. Today above all days he must remain unmoved, even when a subordinate defied him to his face.

  The other Bishops heard their orders in glum silence. Only Robert of Hereford muttered, more to himself than to his companions, ‘God save us all. We cannot hope for peace, now that our Archbishop has broken the King’s customs. Yet when war starts I must follow my lord, like the rest of us.’ He straightened his shoulders as he glanced down at his Benedictine sandals. A promoted monk, still hankering for the cloister, he was the most peace-loving of the Bishops; but he also had been born of the warlike race of Rollo, and when the trumpet sounded he would not shirk his duty.

  Now the Bishop of London announced, with a formal reverence to his Metropolitan, that it was time for him to ride to the castle, where the King wished to consult him before the court opened. This gave notice that henceforth he would be on the King’s side; but so much was already public knowledge, and Thomas felt that Gilbert had been courteous in thus making his position clear before the trial resumed. He was now in full command of his temper, and he graciously acknowledged Gilbert’s genuflexion.

  The Bishop of Winchester began to fidget, and Thomas realized that time was passing. The Bishops ought to be present when the court opened, to enforce their right to be treated as full members of the King’s Council; though when the Archbishop’s case was called they would of course withdraw, since they might not sit in judgment on the lord to whom they had sworn canonical obedience. Thomas gave them leave to depart.

  As a matter of fact Bishop Henry of Winchester stayed behind, with Bishop Jocelyn de Bohun of Salisbury. Both were great magnates by birth, and friendly with many lay magnates of the Council. They wished to advise the Archbishop on his demeanour before the King; even if there was no hope of a friendly outcome Thomas must be persuaded to change his present mood of angry defiance.

  They could not change his mood; but they prevailed on him to refrain from provoking the King before the court opened. He had promised to ride to the castle in Mass vestments of martyr’s red, with mitre, cope, and pallium. Bishop Jocelyn pointed out that such a deliberate appeal for sympathy might alienate more laymen than it persuaded, and Thomas agreed that a Bohun must know more than a burgess about the sentiments of great magnates. Instead of a chasuble he wore under his cope his customary black Augustinian gown; though he insisted on a stole as well, and hung a little pyx inside it. This was to make certain that he would receive Viaticum if the King should kill him on the spot. Bishop Henry agreed reluctantly that there was nothing actually wrong in this dress, especially as stole and pyx would be hidden by his cope; but it seemed a reflection on his clerical supporters. The whole hierarchy of England would be present, yet Thomas assumed that not one of them would have the courage to attend him if the worst came to the worst.

  ‘He is very obstinate,’ muttered Jocelyn. ‘He goes out of his way to anger the King.’

  ‘We must remember that he is not a gentleman born,’ answered Bishop Henry. ‘He is in fact in danger of death, though I hope the King will be sensible. If he wishes to make a display of his peril let him do so. It may win him friends among the populace.’

  A flight of stone steps led from the court of Northampton castle to the double doors of the great hall. The court was crowded with grooms and sergeants, all hoping to be eye-witnesses of a famous historical event; but the steps were left clear for the magnates, and on them, as the appointed time approached, lounged the Bishops of London and Hereford. They had a clear view of the first remarkable event of that remarkable day.

  Through the outer gate rode the clerks of the Archbishop’s household, two by two on well-paced hackneys. On entering the courtyard they dismounted, and grooms took their horses. Behind the senior clerks came the processional cross that was the emblem of Metropolitan authority; Dom Herbert of Bosham, in black Benedictine cowl, bore the tall silver-gilt pole, banded with gleaming enamel and surmounted by a silver-gilt crucifix; as high and conspicuous as a battle-standard, it announced, to any who might have forgotten it, that behind it came the spiritual ruler of southern England, which included the town and castle of Northampton. In normal times any well-mannered layman would uncover and kneel at the passing of a Metropolitan cross, and even to-day many of the grooms paid it due honour; while those who ignored it, looking steadily at the horizon, were plainly embarrassed.

  Behind the cross rode Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury, in cope and mitre and jewelled gloves, his right hand raised to bless the muttering crowd; while his left managed the reins of a great roan destrier, a more warlike mount than clerks were used to ride on occasions of ceremony. He sat low in his peaked war-saddle, his toes forward and his back straight; Gilbert whispered flippantly to his brother Bishop that this cavalier seemed listening for the trumpet to sound the onset.

  When all were within the courtyard there was a creaking of stout oak timbers, and Gilbert gripped Robert of Hereford by the arm. ‘See,’ he hissed, ‘they have locked the gate. Thomas is trapped in the King’s strong castle.’

  But Robert was not listening. With a little moan of distress he sprang forward, arms outstretched. ‘Our Archbishop himself carries his cross, as did Our Lord at Calvary,’ he called. ‘Most gracious master, permit me to be your cross-bearer.’

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Gilbert with a shrug, ‘the man was always a fool, and he always will be. Pay no attention.’

  For Thomas had seized the weighty cross from his astonished cross-bearer. He had never carried it before, and he was too impatient to hold it in the correct ceremonial fashion, bolt upright a foot before his nose. There was something else of roughly the same weight and shape which once he had carried frequently; he tucked the butt inside his elbow, as a knight bears his lance when the foe spurs against him.

  The Bishop of Hereford made an ineffectual grab at the cross, and as Thomas brushed him aside Bishop Gilbert intervened more brusquely. ‘Here, give me that,’ he called sharply. ‘If you wield your cross so, the King will wield his sword; and then who shall make peace between you?’

  Thomas glared fiercely, but his steps did not falter.

  ‘This cross is the emblem of peace, which I carry for the protection of the Church,’ he rapped out.

  He swept up to the lower hall, then plodded through it to the little solar beyond. Within the solar he sat huddled on a bench, grasping the cross between his knees. Most of his clerks lingered in the hall, fearful of the King’s vengeance: only Herbert of Bosham and Robert of Merton follo
wed him into the inner room.

  Meanwhile another great train of clerks mounted the steps to the hall; the onlookers barely had time to take their eyes off the Archbishop of Canterbury before the Archbishop of York marched by. The Bishop of London genuflected to this Metropolitan cross, for a Cluniac training made such reverence second nature. But he bowed his knee with a sarcastic smile. Roger of York was behaving characteristically, which was to say with foolish pomposity. In the first place, he had purposely delayed his arrival until a great crowd had gathered to witness his glory; in the second, he had taken advantage of the crisis to invade the rights of Canterbury. His cross should never be borne before him except within the bounds of his own Province; even Gilbert, glad to see his own Metropolitan slighted, felt a shock of distaste at this insult to the Province which held his allegiance; every subject of Canterbury must bristle at the trespass.

  A clerk who had overheard his passage with the Bishop of Hereford whispered in Gilbert’s ear: ‘You said our Archbishop carried his cross like a lance. Here is the lance of the champion who will joust against him.’

  With a noncommittal grunt Gilbert moved away. He himself might sneer at the royal favourite to whom backstairs influence had given the Primacy which was the rightful due of the outstanding Diocesan Bishop in England, but the corporate loyalty which was the strongest prejudice in every clerk was roused when others attacked his lord. Besides, it was time for him to join his colleagues.

  Every move of that day of climax had been carefully planned in advance, to ensure that Henry and Thomas should not meet face to face. The Council met in the upper hall, with the King in the adjoining solar; the Archbishop remained in the lower solar; and the lower hall made a useful lobby, where delegations could revise the wording of messages passed from one solar to the other.

  In the upper hall Richer de l’Aigle was glad to rest in a window, apart from the crowd of jostling magnates. He knew that today would bring long hours of standing in ordered ranks of precedence, with probably no proper interval for dinner. At present the King’s solar was filled with Bishops, making a last appeal for peace and concord. That was expected from Bishops, and it would be very shocking if they slackened in their search for peace; but it would also be very surprising if they found it. A wise man with gouty feet should sit resting until they were dismissed.

  Suddenly a roar from the solar startled even his deaf ears. He glanced inquiringly at the young lord beside him, who spoke up obligingly. ‘That’s only the King indicating a mild annoyance. He isn’t chewing rushes, so it doesn’t really count as anger. He has just learned that every Bishop in England spent the morning appealing to Rome, in spite of the Constitutions of Clarendon. He will roar for a little, but the diversion won’t last. He is too eager to get on with sentencing the Archbishop.’

  Richer was shocked to hear a vassal speak so lightly of his lord. That was not how young knights discussed affairs of state forty years ago. He could not decide which side he supported, and this further evidence of the degeneracy of the times increased his disquiet. For many years he had been a suitor of the King’s court, and never before had felt any doubt in a case of felony; for such cases did not reach the King’s court unless the culprit’s guilt was flagrant. The normal duty of the magnates was merely to pronounce sentence; after which they would be morally bound to enforce the penalty, with their own mesnies if necessary. Today he could not help wondering whether the Archbishop might not have right on his side; though of course King Henry, that expert on the custom of England, was sure to find a way to put him in the wrong. If he, Richer, were asked on oath whether Thomas had denied justice to John the Marshal, and had then appealed to Rome without the King’s permission, he could only answer Yes. But did that make his old pupil a traitor? Perhaps as the day wore on a solution would emerge.

  But time passed without bringing a solution nearer; for when the King was angry he wandered from the point, and today none of his councillors tried to bring him back to it. The magnates waited to be embodied in the court which must condemn the Archbishop; but the King was busy trying to make Thomas withdraw his appeal to the Pope. Furthermore, he tried to effect this by frightening him, and Richer knew he had no chance of success.

  Presently the Count of Warenne led a group of young knights to the lower solar, where they stood in the doorway reminding one another of what had happened to Bishops who had defied earlier Kings of England. The gelding of the Bishop and chapter of Seez was trotted out again as a precedent, as though the King were proud of his father’s revolting vengeance; and of course there was the imprisonment of the Bishop of Bayeux, nearly a century ago in the days of the Conqueror.

  Before they began Richer could have told them they were wasting their time. You could not frighten Thomas of London? (Then why had he suddenly yielded at Clarendon? There was no knowing, until all secrets should be revealed at the Judgment; Richer suspected the Pope must have issued binding but inappropriate instructions.) By the middle of the morning they had all trooped upstairs, sheepish and crestfallen; Thomas had ignored them completely, continuing to recite his office with that scowling monk beside him. It was getting on for dinner time, and Richer searched his wallet for the lump of salt beef he had brought. A wise courtier always came to these bad-tempered sessions prepared as for a campaign.

  Still from the King’s solar came angry raised voices, and from the Archbishop’s the mutter of psalms. There was constant coming and going on the winding turret stair, as peacemakers hurried in search of a formula. Nearly everyone present longed for peace; unfortunately two exceptions were the King and the Archbishop.

  Presently Richer scrambled to his feet to bow to the Metropolitan cross of York. For a moment he hoped the council was ended, but he was quickly undeceived. As Archbishop Roger formed his clerks in procession he addressed them in a loud voice. ‘You will return with me to my lodging. I advise my brethren of the Province of Canterbury to withdraw also. The slaughter of a consecrated Archbishop is a sight no clerk should witness. But if the King wills it we cannot prevent it; and the King has good reason for his anger.’

  The steep winding stair marred the pomp of his procession; but he walked through the narrow door with all the dignity he could muster.

  Richer turned in indignation to his neighbour. ‘That is sheer incitement to murder!’ he expostulated. ‘The King has confiscated the chattels of Canterbury; probably before the day is out he will escheat the lands also; he might even chain the Archbishop in a dungeon. But surely he will not shed his blood.’

  ‘The King may order anything, if he gives way to his rage,’ answered the other. ‘He will mean what he says, while he says it. Probably he will change his mind after, and then those who have carried out his instructions will be unlucky. If I were ordered to cut off the Archbishop’s head I wouldn’t act on the order unless I had it in writing, with the King’s seal dangling below. As for that silly demonstration by Roger of York, it was done only for effect. Did you hear him talking about ‘Bailhache’ earlier in the day? He hates Canterbury, and despises Thomas.’

  ‘That’s true as far as it goes, but it’s not the reason why he left,’ put in another bystander. ‘He genuinely expects murder, and fears to be implicated in it. All the world knows his hatred of Canterbury, and if Canterbury were murdered with York standing by all the world would believe York struck the first blow. He is fleeing from the scene of the crime before the crime is committed. I wish I could do the same, but I fear the King.’

  ‘Surely no one proposes to murder an Archbishop?’ said Richer.

  ‘Don’t be too sure. Thomas has a wounding tongue, and if the young knights abuse him for defying their lord he may answer so sharply that some ass strikes to defend his honour.’

  ‘Did you see our Roger’s leave-taking?’ said another lord, strolling over from the stairs. ‘He put his head in at the lower solar, for one last crow over Thomas his rival. He advised him to yield to the just anger of the King, because that was the most aggravating
remark he could think of. Good old Thomas answered him properly. “Get thee behind me, Satan,” he said, and went on with his office. He’s a brave man, Thomas. When he became a clerk a very good knight was lost.’

  ‘Oh, he was a good knight, true enough,’ said another. ‘I followed him in the assault on Cahors. But if he jousts against a great King even a good knight will be slain.’

  Richer felt more and more worried. He was King Henry’s faithful vassal, but no knight might follow a lord who made war on the Holy Church. If the worst came to the worst he would slip away quietly, and send a formal defiance after he had reached his strong castle of Pevensey. He could hold it for months, against all King Henry’s power; and in the last resort the King of France would be glad to accept his homage.

  King Henry could sense the changing mood of his vassals. He had demonstrated his wrath, but without losing his head. He knew that if he lost the allegiance of his magnates he would be as powerless as King Stephen; and he knew that if he murdered an Archbishop half the castles in England would hoist banners of defiance. He had been trying to frighten Thomas into withdrawing his appeal to the Pope, encouraged by the fact that some Bishops were already beside themselves with fear; Bartholomew of Exeter, an unworldly scholar, had fallen on his knees to beg his Metropolitan to save many lives by a timely surrender; even Henry of Winchester besought him to go into exile of his own free will. But Thomas would not yield; he was willing to face martyrdom, knowing that his martyrdom would cost Henry the throne. Both sides had gone too far to withdraw with dignity.

  When Gilbert of London proposed a way out Henry snatched at it. After all, this business of appeals to Rome was an unforeseen distraction. When it was out of the way he could proceed with more definite charges, charges on which the Court must find Thomas guilty.