That same evening the Cardinals deputed by the Pope to make peace between King and Archbishop reached Gisors from Sens. Nobody told them that the Justiciar’s impish teasing had put the King in a worse rage than had ever been seen. They asked for a private interview in the morning. That interview was so private that no one among the courtiers ever learned what had passed; but when the Cardinals emerged the King, very red in the face, escorted them to the outer gate in stony silence. As he turned away he shouted, so loud that even the sentry on the drawbridge overheard: ‘I hope to God I never set eyes on another Cardinal!’
It was presumed that the Cardinals’ mission had ended in failure.
The next year, 1168, passed in stalemate. Thomas continued to be the guest of King Louis in the royal Abbey of St. Colombe at Sens. King Henry remained in his continental dominions, riding like a hurricane from Bayeux to Bordeaux, bringing order to lawless Poitou, and showing the magnates of Aquitaine that their hereditary Duchess could not protect them from the wrath of her husband. Men were beginning to forget the beautiful and indiscreet Queen Eleanor; King Henry kept her in seclusion that was almost imprisonment, and nowadays she seldom took her rightful place at court. The spiteful said it was the only way to treat a light woman, if you had been so greedy as to marry one for her fiefs; a piece of gossip which reached Henry as it was meant to do, and did not mend his temper.
Pope Alexander was still eager for peace, and far more willing to compromise than was his supporter the Archbishop. To avoid an irreparable breach he forbade Thomas to inflict the penalty of excommunication on any of his subjects; though he promised that his powers would be restored next Easter. It was a warning that Henry must make peace while there was yet time.
King Louis of France was also earnestly seeking after peace. He had everything to gain by a continuance of trouble in England, but that had no influence on his chivalrous soul. He deplored the persecution of a holy Archbishop; but he was himself a King, and he did not think too hardly of a King who took steps to punish a clerk who defied him. It seemed to him a great pity that two gallant knights who had once been companions in arms should be thus estranged. Surely if they met on their destriers in some fair meadow, as did the Paladins in the epics of chivalry, brotherly love would wake again in their stubborn hearts. With noble impracticability he set himself to bring about such a meeting, not bothering to negotiate preliminary terms of agreement.
Noble and impractical though the French King may have been, he was more desperately in earnest than any of the other peacemakers, and his energy was rewarded. The King of England agreed to meet his exiled Archbishop, at Montmirail in his County of Maine, on the Feast of the Epiphany.
The meeting would not be private, though since both would be mounted they might if they wished ride apart for private conversation. The King of France would be present, and the Pope had sent a commission of two learned lawyers as witnesses.
Thomas rode to the meeting with his little train of faithful clerks, Normans of England who had shared his four years’ exile. Since there had been no preliminary negotiations he had no idea of what sort of terms would come from this interview; but he was beginning to see that the present situation could not continue indefinitely. His own clerks were eager for peace at any price.
They were the cream of the educated clergy of England; that was why they had been chosen for the household of the Archbishop. They were Normans, bred to the unswerving loyalty to an oath freely given which was the foundation of Norman honour; that was why they had followed him into exile, abandoning rich benefices into the greedy hands of the King. They would never desert their lord, but they expected their lord to heed the advice of his followers. If they, even they, thought it was time he tried to make friends with the King, it meant that in the opinion of all educated Christendom the quarrel had gone far enough.
Thomas himself had no plans for the meeting. He was desperately weary of the whole sordid argument, and troubled in his conscience lest pride had led him to refuse earlier offers of a reasonable settlement. He had seen for the last three years that the Pope, though he could not abandon his supporter, considered him too intransigent; there could be no other explanation of the long suspension of his power to excommunicate. King Louis, the most honourable knight in Christendom, also thought it was time to make peace. Hitherto he had discounted these opinions, because neither the Pope nor King Louis knew King Henry; they had never experienced his pettifogging insistence on the last ounce of his legal rights, or his atrocious wrath when he was thwarted. But these clerks, Herbert of Bosham, Henry of Houghton and the rest, knew the King well; only he, Thomas, once his dearest friend, knew him better. It must be time to give in.
Yet how could he give in, and allow Henry to rule the Church in England? Henry was not a bad ruler. Certainly there was peace throughout his realm, for he allowed no rivals to oppress his people. But in financial matters he was quite unscrupulous; and his itch to interfere in the personal affairs of his vassals would lead him to invade the legitimate sphere of his Bishops and parish priests. Besides, powers granted to Henry would be claimed by every succeeding King of England; young Henry fitzHenry was a brave child, with his mother’s ambition added to his father’s vigour; but no one could foretell what kind of men would succeed him.
A Church ruled by the temporal power would be a mere branch of the administration, its endowments misapplied to reward politicians, and its teaching edited to justify the personal failings of the ruler. Though the whole of Christendom were against him, and even the Pope lukewarm, Thomas knew that it must be his duty to stand firm.
The place appointed for the meeting was the usual grassy meadow, where great men might ride apart in private conversation while their secretaries and advisers conferred in a group. When Thomas arrived behind the tall Metropolitan cross which was his ensign he saw already standing side by side the red flag bearing the golden leopards of Anjou which was the personal standard of King Henry, and the flag of Our Lady’s blue sown with Her golden lilies which for ages past had been the standard of Christian France. The two Kings had taken this occasion for another discussion of the never-settled question of the Vexin border castles; a polite and exquisitely dressed chamberlain asked the Archbishop to wait until this first conference had been concluded.
Presently the two Kings rode forward, clear of their advisers. Both were dressed in the full state of royalty, with thin golden circlets round their purple hoods and ermine mantles of sovereignty flowing over their saddles; they were mounted on warlike destriers, and Henry’s in particular, fretted by the restless hands of his impatient rider, pranced and curvetted, his neck lathered by the reins. The stately warhorses walked forward side by side, until all could see them; then their riders swung them apart and turned them face to face. They pricked their ears and pawed the ground, ready for the fight; but their riders restrained them, forcing them gently forward until they met and halted head to tail. It was a tricky business with a destrier, trained to fight with forelegs and teeth against hostile stallions. Thomas recognized with admiration the skill of the riders who kept them at peace.
The two Kings dropped reins on the saddlebow, and simultaneously leaned from their saddles, each to his right; their arms came forward to rest on the other’s shoulders, and for a moment the two purple hoods, each with its gleaming crown, touched and nestled side by side. Then they wheeled their destriers apart, and returned self-consciously to the group they had left.
Ah, the Kiss of Peace, thought Thomas, recognizing a ceremony he had often heard described, though as it happened he had never seen it. It must mark the conclusion of an agreement, and therefore the time had come for his own interview. As he rode forward he recalled that to knights and warriors that ritual embrace was more binding than any sacrament. Enemies might seal a treaty and agree to live in peace; but only those who intended to be true friends would exchange the Kiss of Peace.
It was worth remembering, in these present negotiations. Henry would not commit open
and cynical perjury, but he was so cunning at finding legal quibbles to justify his conduct that it would be dangerous to rely on any form of words, no matter how carefully composed, to safeguard the rights of the Church. But if Henry would exchange the Kiss of Peace Thomas might rely on an honest and friendly interpretation of even a vague formula.
Suddenly he was face to face with King Henry, his old comrade and commander in the exciting business of bringing peace to England, his companion in the hunt, his friend who had roistered with him in the taverns of Cheapside when the world was young. Of course King Louis had been right! Two such gallant knights had only to meet in a meadow and discuss their grievances, and they must ride away together, firm friends once again. In a transport of affection he slid from his high war-saddle, to kneel before the King as a vassal kneels before his lord.
King Henry was equally affected. The Archbishop was after all good old Thomas of Cheapside, the gay companion who made fun of his shabby mantle and handled so efficiently the complicated affairs of the Chancery. Poor Thomas, exile did not suit him. He was blue with cold, as one might expect in a meadow in January; but he was also careworn, tired, and very thin under his usual mountain of thick clothes. He remembered his old friend’s stubborn Norman pride, and knew that to kneel thus humbly in the mud was a remarkable demonstration of loyalty. He in turn jumped from his destrier; he assisted the Archbishop to rise, and held his stirrup while he mounted. Only then did he mount his own horse, to ride beside him at a slow walk; until they were far enough from King Louis and the group of advisers to begin their private discussion.
‘My dear Thomas,’ he began, ‘I am very sorry we have drifted into this foolish state of enmity. I am sure it was my fault, but you know how my rage overcomes me when it once is roused. Let us make a fresh start. You must come back to England as soon as you can. I shall chase out those rascally Brocs and restore to you the lands of Canterbury as they ought to be. You shall have the chief place in my council, as is your right; and between us we’ll shake up that pompous ass sitting under his Lily banner. Really, that Louis! I don’t know whether he is just tactless or deliberately malicious, but every time we meet he inquires after the welfare of my Queen.’
Thomas suppressed the smile that struggled to his lips. There was more wit in the gallant Louis than one might suppose. Henry was in most ways the better man; a stronger ruler, a more powerful King, a more resourceful politician, just as brave and nearly as chivalrous. But there was no getting away from it; he had married a gay lady, risking his honour for a rich dowry; and he had married her after her loose conduct had proved her unworthy to be the consort of the King of France. If King Louis began every negotiation by reminding Henry that they had shared the favours of Queen Eleanor, that must give him a gratifying tactical advantage.
‘However, let’s forget Louis for a moment,’ Henry continued. ‘The important thing is to get you back to England. There will always be disputes about the jurisdiction of Church and King. Even in my great-grandfather’s time they occurred. But the Conqueror and Archbishop Lanfranc worked together, and because they were personal friends they got along without quarreling. You and I can do the same.’
‘Well, sheriffs and archdeacons are sure to squabble, because no one can prevent an occasional clash of jurisdictions,’ answered Thomas with a friendly smile. ‘But so long as we, their masters, remain on good terms the squabbles can easily be patched up. There are men all over England who claim to be clerks, though when they get into trouble they can produce no records of their ordination. How would it be if we drew up a comprehensive list, and tried to keep it up to date? Then each sheriff would have the names of all the clerks in his county, and he would know exactly who was to be handed over to the Bishop’s court. It sounds a big undertaking, but Domesday Book was a bigger. When I was at the Chancery we could have got out the lists in six months.’
A frown gathered on Henry’s forehead. But in a moment he smiled again, as he answered with forced friendliness. ‘My dear Thomas, surely you don’t intend to go back on your solemn promise? At Clarendon you swore to observe the ancient custom of the realm. I am only guessing, but I believe you had direct orders to swear, orders from the Holy Father himself. Are you trying to be more papalist than the Pope?’
‘Of course not. That would indeed be absurd,’ said Thomas, also stretching his mouth into a smile no deeper than his lips; already the first shock of pleasure, the delight of two old friends in meeting after long separation, was giving way in both of them to the wary fencing of the politician. ‘I still think it wrong and unchristian that clerks who have received the Sacrament of Holy Order should suffer the same punishment as ordinary criminals; though I admit some of them behave very wickedly, deserving stern punishment. But on that point I stand alone. As you say, the Pope disagrees with me, and I must bow to his decision. If in any particular case you think a clerk merits further punishment after I have done with him, I won’t stand in your way, or even make a protest. I hope you won’t do it too often, but that must be a matter of give and take. Far more serious is the privilege of free appeal to the Curia. You must see, my dear Henry, that if the Church is one then all her members must be free to communicate with her Head.’
‘H’m, are they so free, even when Kings don’t interfere? Could a layman appeal to Rome over your head? If you can stop appeals because you consider them frivolous or scandalous, why shouldn’t I prohibit them if I consider them a danger to my realm?’
‘I don’t stop them, I assure you, my dear Henry. Do you think Bishop Gilbert of London would appeal so often if he had to seek my permission first?’
‘Oh, Gilbert! There’s never any holding him, in questions of politics or questions of law. He knows better than anyone else, as he will tell you if you ask him. All the revenue of his See must go to the Roman lawyers, except the part you compel him to spend on travelling.’
They both laughed happily, beginning to feel the ties of old associations creeping back to bind them together. Bishop Gilbert was notorious for his tactics of appealing to Rome whenever a case was given against him; which delayed proceedings as only the Curia understood delay. In the end, when the case came to trial, he would submit to judgment without argument, having avoided for some years the enforcement of the original verdict. Last year Thomas, anxious to rebuke him for disloyalty to his Metropolitan, had ordered him to report in person at Sens. Gilbert appealed against the order; though in the meantime he began his journey, as by Canon Law he was bound to do; for his well-trained Cluniac conscience would not permit him openly to defy his superior. Then the Pope intervened by suspending Thomas’s powers until Easter 1169; and Gilbert gladly returned to London, an adversary of the Archbishop whom he had sworn to obey; but not technically guilty of the sin of disobedience.
‘Certainly, if Gilbert can remain your faithful subject, you and I can get along without quarrelling,’ said Henry, completely friendly and at his ease. ‘Why don’t we settle this matter here and now, with the King of France for witness? You have already sworn to keep the customs of the realm, so there is no need for you to swear again. That would look like an admission of defeat, when nobody has been defeated. If you just repeat the ordinary ceremony of homage, which you owe to me as lord of the Lands of Canterbury, you may come home as soon as you are ready. You will have seizin of your endowments in time for the spring ploughing.’
‘And you won’t enforce the letter of your customs, which are not the old customs I remember from my childhood?’ asked Thomas, anxiously.
That was a mistake. In the last four years Henry’s bad temper had come nearer to the surface. He frowned, and made an effort to speak gently.
‘Just do homage, that’s all I ask. In other matters you have already sworn all that I require of you.’
They rode back to the little group by the standards of France and England and the Metropolitan cross of Canterbury. Thomas felt his mind in a turmoil. In legal affairs Henry was given to sharp practice, and there might be more
in this oath of homage than appeared on the surface. Evidently Henry considered that when he had got his Archbishop back across the Channel he would be able to bend the Church to his will. It was better to play for safety. Luckily there were plenty of saving clauses to choose from; this question of the full implication of an oath demanded on the spur of the moment was one that arose frequently, since important negotiations were more often settled by an oath before witnesses than by a sealed agreement.
When the time came for Thomas to dismount and, kneeling, renew his homage to King Henry, his mind was made up. All the witnesses were intensely thrilled to see this famous quarrel composed before their eyes, and the Archbishop’s clerks in particular were wild with excitement. In a few minutes their long exile would be ended; they could ride straight from Montmirail to their waiting benefices in England. Peace had come after more than four years of struggle in which they had borne an honourable part. At home they would be famous and revered, the faithful companions who had shared the trials of a persecuted confessor. Thomas was not surprised to hear a groan of dismay as he completed his homage by the addition of his saving clause.
‘… saving the Honour of God, and the rights of Holy Church, and the rights of my order,’ he wound up defiantly, his voice raised.
Startled by the sudden excitement of their riders, the horses set up a jangle of bridles and a stirring of restless hoofs. Through the confusion sounded a few brief swearwords, but the first intelligible answer came from King Henry, shouting in rage.
He was utterly without dignity, yelling at the King of France as an angry child yells at his nurse. He rocked in the saddle, his eyes bursting from his head and the veins on his neck standing out like ropes.
‘Thomas the proud, Thomas the fool, Thomas the recant,’ he shouted. ‘See here, King Louis. For no reason at all, in the middle of the night, this man ran away from his church and the responsibilities laid on him by God. I did not pursue him, none of my vassals pursued him. He just ran away, from mere spite, to make foreigners think me a bloody tyrant. He pretends he is suffering for the Church, but that’s a damned lie. I have never persecuted the Church. All I asked of him was to keep the old customs, customs his predecessors always kept. What about Anselm? He is famous for miracles, a very holy canonized saint. He was Archbishop of Canterbury, and he never complained of the old customs. They were good enough for a great Saint, but not good enough for Thomas of Cheapside, risen from the gutter only by my favour. Damn it all, years ago he swore to observe those customs. Why can’t he swear to them again, honestly, without those confounded trick-phrases at the end? Yes, I tell you, King Louis, he swore to observe them; and if he had the honesty to abide by his oath there would be no quarrel between us. Instead of which he went to Vezelay of all places, the most famous shrine in France, where he could be sure of finding a crowd of my enemies. There, as publicly as he could, he denounced my customs as evil, and excommunicated my faithful vassals who observe them.’
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