God and My Right

by Alfred Duggan

  ‘You understand, my lord,’ said Herbert of Bosham eagerly. ‘Sir Odo was brave and fortunate; but he succeeded because the common people of England support the Church against the King. Sir Odo was hidden by a rich burgess, who had once been Alderman; that in itself is comforting. But the Alderman could not have hidden him, in fact he would never have reached London, if the King’s sergeants had done their work zealously. King Henry no longer gets loyal service, even from his paid followers.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sir Odo, ‘at Montmirail the peasants of France showed that they loved you. Now you can count on the people of England. If you wish, you may dethrone King Henry.’

  ‘King Henry was once a good friend to me,’ answered the Archbishop.’ I do not seek to dethrone him. When he admits that the Church is ruled by God, not by Kings, we shall be good friends again.’

  When he learned that Gilbert, his most useful adherent among the Bishops, had been openly excommunicated in his own cathedral, with the connivance of his flock, King Henry fell into one of his worst rages. He recognized as clearly as Thomas that this was a symptom of widespread disaffection. Then news reached him that on the Feast of Candlemas next, the 2nd of February 1170, Thomas intended to place all England under Interdict. He saw he must patch up a peace, or be overthrown by rebellion.

  Unfortunately the King of France no longer offered to mediate; if Henry wanted peace he must make the first move himself. But when he invited his Archbishop to confer with him in Normandy Thomas answered that he would only negotiate under the protection of King Louis, for he feared assassination if he entered the dominions of King Henry. Henry therefore let it be known, unofficially, that an invitation to negotiate on French soil would be accepted. But King Louis, who disliked Henry’s bad temper and foul language, did not issue the invitation.

  By November Henry was desperate. He must make peace by February, or lose his throne. He also knew, or could guess from his experience of foreign affairs, that the Pope had ordered Thomas to accept peace if it was offered; for the cities of Lombardy were fighting gallantly against the Emperor, and at this time of crisis the Guelf cause must not lose the support of the wealthy King of England. If only he could get Thomas to a conference the trouble would be quickly ended.

  It was a most humiliating position, as humiliating as that awful summer more than twenty years ago when King Stephen had contemptuously paid the travelling expenses of his defeated rival. The only solution was to visit the Ile de France uninvited. If he made an excuse to come to Paris he was sure to run into Thomas.

  In November 1169 Thomas was staying in Paris, on the invitation of King Louis; he had been given a little house in the Cite, among the lodgings of the Canons of Notre Dame, and there in a snug chamber he talked over his plans with Herbert of Bosham.

  ‘To-morrow King Henry rides on pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Denys on the hill of Montmartre,’ he said. ‘I shall meet him there, with the King of France present to guarantee my personal safety. You may pass word to all my clerks that by Christmas we shall be in England. For I shall swear the oath Henry demands, and end the quarrel.’

  ‘On what terms?’ Herbert asked sharply.

  ‘On any terms, or on no terms at all. What does it matter? I may get all sorts of promises from Henry, but when he loses his temper he will disregard them. The Pope forbids me to put England under Interdict, though I have promised publicly to do so by Candlemas. I can’t back down without utter disgrace, so the quarrel must be settled before February. It’s peace at any price, but that’s what the Curia requires of me.’

  Herbert stared at the Archbishop. Thomas was nearly fifty-one, and he looked seventy; he was bent and haggard, and curiously ungainly, a thin wrinkled neck emerging from a bunchy bundle of warm clothing. As usual he shivered with cold; and his face, save for its purple nose, was yellow and roughened. He seemed utterly worn out, so crushed with disappointment that he had scarcely strength to speak.

  ‘But you must agree on some of the questions in dispute,’ Herbert persisted. ‘What about freedom to appeal to Rome, and the enforcement of those customs King Henry invented at Clarendon? You can’t just leave all that in the air.’

  ‘We shall, all the same. I won’t promise publicly to obey them, and Henry won’t promise publicly to withdraw them. We just shan’t mention them at all. One of the royal clerks wrote to me unofficially. If I do homage I get back the property of the See of Canterbury; then I return to England and we make a fresh start. I know it’s ridiculous. We are sure to quarrel again within the year. But so the Curia orders.’

  ‘At least it will be pleasant to be home again,’ said Herbert with all the cheerfulness he could muster. ‘For five years we have held our ground against a mighty King, and it’s no disgrace to yield after such a resistance. Besides, when we get to England Henry may not have it all his own way. Even with you out of the country he could not make the clergy swear to follow him against their true lord.’

  ‘No, they behaved very well,’ Thomas answered with the flicker of a smile; the well-chosen reminder was sure to bring him comfort. ‘Even Roger of York refused to swear, though he still thinks of me as Bailhache. But half of them tried to dodge the issue, by neglecting to take the oath without a definite refusal. No one can say which lord Salisbury and Norwich would support, if there were no monastery where they could hide until the topic was forgotten.’

  ‘You have the support of the common people, and of the clergy. In fact you have the support of every good Christian except the Pope. When we are back in England Henry must behave with caution.’

  ‘He expects me to die soon, and I hope he is right,’ Thomas answered mournfully. ‘He gambles that his next Archbishop will be easier to manage. As you say, five years is a long time to maintain a hopeless fight. But I am sorry that at the end we must surrender unconditionally. It would have been better for the quiet simple Christians of England if I had yielded at Northampton. Then there would have been no excommunications, no sending into exile.’

  ‘It was exciting while it lasted, but I look forward to Christ Church. Five years’ absence from my cloister makes a serious dent in my vow of stability.’ Herbert could stomach even surrender, if it brought peace.

  King Henry rode to the hill of Montmartre feeling on the whole more pleased than angry. King Louis had behaved most discourteously to a brother-sovereign. Since he had not been invited to visit Paris he had ridden thirty-six miles from Mantes, the nearest castle which flew his banner; that was not a long ride, as Angevins reckoned riding, but of course he must appear splendid and unruffled at this famous colloquy. He had managed rather well, he considered, by sending on ahead his fiercest and most imposing destrier and his robes of state, while he himself cantered up on a smooth hackney; after praying at the shrine of St. Denys he had changed clothes and mount, and now he felt ready for anything. But there had been a muddle over his dinner, and it was unfortunate that etiquette would not allow him to enter Paris to eat at an inn. Still, he knew that all the best cooks in France had been assembled to prepare a magnificent feast in honour of the reconciliation; after he had finished this business with Thomas he was sure of a good supper.

  Apart from that little snub from King Louis he had every reason to be pleased with himself. He had been firm, but patient; he had maintained the letter of his legal rights, but he had restrained himself from the kind of atrocity that would have soothed his sore-tried temper; no one could accuse him of an outrage like his father’s gelding of the Bishop-elect of Seez. He had been sure that time was on his side, and now his patience was to be rewarded. Thomas was going to swear homage, not because he had been driven to it by persecution, but because his own superior, the Pope, commanded it. That ought to settle the question once and for all.

  He was first at the rendezvous, but King Louis and the Archbishop were punctual. As they arrived he felt a surge of self-confidence, knowing what a fine figure he made on Golden Leopard, the handsome chestnut that was his most showy destrier. The stallion w
as too restless and hot-tempered to be comfortable for a long ride, but he was just the mount to make an impression at a stately conference. King Louis was muffled in woollens against the November weather, and Thomas, who used to dress so splendidly, looked almost insignificant in his bulky Cistercian cowl; the King of England, prancing in purple mantle and golden crown, was the most distinguished personage on the hilltop.

  But when the conference began he could no longer strike dignified attitudes. King Louis first lowered the tone of the meeting by sending his love to good old Eleanor; he did it every time he met King Henry, and besides the discomfort of knowing that he chatted with the ex-husband of his wife Henry was again reminded that he had risked a cuckold’s fate to win a great dowry. Then Thomas raised the question of the restoration of English benefices unlawfully escheated from his exiled companions. Henry could not look dignified while he haggled over money, yet haggle he must, since there was money at stake. Thomas had a good memory for figures. The discussion continued for some time, while the King of France yawned.

  At last all these tedious matters of business were arranged. Nothing had been said about the customs of England or the right of appeal to Rome. These disputes would remain unresolved; what mattered was a display of reconciliation before the eyes of the world.

  Thomas dismounted, and kneeling before his King swore to serve him as a loyal vassal and faithful friend. It was a complete surrender.

  King Henry, hand on hip, swayed to the curvets of his destrier, savouring this moment of triumph. Now they had only to ride down the hill and begin drinking the good French wine. But it seemed there was more to be done. King Louis was prompting anxiously from the background.

  ‘Now you in your turn dismount, my lord King, to embrace the holy Archbishop with the Kiss of Peace. Such was the ceremonial agreed by our heralds.’

  King Henry stiffened. Thomas had once been his friend, but he was his friend no longer; he was a pardoned rebel, lucky to get back his forfeited estates. The Kiss of Peace was given by brave knights to trusted comrades; this man did not deserve it.

  But he could not refuse it without explanation. He snatched at the first excuse that came to mind. ‘My lord King, I cannot grant the Kiss of Peace, because of a great oath I swore in my rage, that never would I embrace this defiant clerk. Surely you would not have me perjured? It was a very terrible oath, though I forget the exact terms. Of course I shall treat my Archbishop as a friend, but the Kiss of Peace is not lightly given.’

  ‘If an oath that you swore in blind rage is all that holds you back,’ said Thomas sardonically, straightening his shoulders as he stood before the restless destrier, ‘the impediment is easily removed. I have power to loose and bind the Christians of the Province of Canterbury. Recently I absolved a great multitude of Englishmen from an illegal oath they swore against their Metropolitan. I can absolve you here and now.’

  That was not the answer of a man anxious for peace.

  Henry recalled all the trouble he had taken to make his vassals swear before the sheriffs that they would support the King in his quarrel with Canterbury; it had been a more difficult business even than the compiling of Domesday Book ninety years ago. When at last it had been done, after enormous expense and tedious delay, Thomas made nonsense of the whole enterprise by releasing the entire population from an illegal oath extorted by fear. Such an artful and self-willed politician would never deserve the Kiss.

  ‘The Archbishop shall have my friendship, but I will not embrace him. Do not press me further, my lord King. My decision is firm,’ he said curtly.

  ‘In that case I withdraw the oath I have just sworn,’ said Thomas. ‘I am within my rights. That oath was part of a mutual compact; unless I get the counterpart it does not bind me. The King of France is the best knight in the world, the greatest authority on all that concerns homage. If King Louis says I am wrong I shall reconsider my position, but if he upholds me my submission is void.’

  King Louis nodded assent. ‘The Archbishop is right. If he receives no counterpart his promise may be withdrawn. Do you still withhold the Kiss, my lord King?’

  ‘I withhold it,’ Henry said fiercely, ‘and that is my last word.’

  ‘Then the conference is concluded,’ King Louis replied stiffly. ‘Come, my lord Archbishop, I desire you to sup with me in my good town of Paris.’

  Thomas climbed clumsily to the saddle (he had aged greatly since he rode with the knight-service of England against Toulouse). Without looking back he cantered to overtake the King of France, who was already riding down the hill to Paris.

  King Henry, alone on the hill of Montmartre, belched from sheer hunger. ‘They never invited me to supper,’ he exclaimed in dismay, as Golden Leopard reared to follow the other horses. Then the full horror of his situation came home to him. He was thirty-six miles from a meal and a bed, and he must ride every yard of that weary way on this confounded peacocking destrier, the last mount he would have chosen for a long journey over rough roads in the dark.

  Thomas was a dangerous enemy, richly deserving the worst punishment that could befall him.

  11. The Last Joust

  Eight months later, in July 1170, King Henry rode through the little Norman village of Freteval, returning from hawking; he was in an amazingly good temper, so friendly with all the world that his courtiers surmised good news must have reached him secretly. In fact there was no particular incident to account for his feeling of contentment; it was just that things in general were going very well for him. Five weeks ago he had assisted at the coronation of young Henry fitzHenry; his dominions were at peace, from Northumbria to the Pyrenees, and in Ireland he had opened up a new field of conquest and plunder where his restless vassals might wage war without disturbing the orderly administration of his fiefs; Queen Eleanor was in England and he was in Normandy; a gay unmarried damsel, the lady Rosamund Clifford, no longer in her first youth but an astonishing fine woman, evaded his dishonourable advances in a spirit that showed she expected to be caught quite soon; his new gyrfalcon had flown gallantly, returning at the first whirl of the lure, a credit to his manning of her; he had eaten a good dinner, sitting in the sun by the river-bank, and he looked forward to a good supper in his own hall. The world was treating him kindly.

  There was one nagging little worry, his feud with the Archbishop of Canterbury; but that had gone on for so long, more than five years, that he had grown used to it. Besides, the Pope was now definitely on his side, and probably poor old Thomas would find himself translated in the near future to some titular See where he could not be a nuisance. He was not sure he relished such a tame end to a stirring quarrel. It was a pleasure to strive against Thomas and his little band of exiled clerks. They were brave, and yet so weak that they could not hurt him. One could admire their courage, standing back to look at the dispute as a spectator. He smiled to himself, recalling that recent interview with Herbert of Bosham; at the time it had angered him, but really it showed the weakness of the Archbishop’s position.

  Dom Herbert had come to court to plead personally for permission to return, a gratifying development; it might be a signal that even the faithful chaplain was about to desert a hopeless cause. King Henry, partly to show he remembered him, partly because it is always difficult to suppress a cutting remark which flashes into the mind at sight of an opponent, had greeted him with the phrase: ‘Ah, here comes the priest’s son.’

  It was a most satisfying insult, at the same time literally true and highly misleading. Years after Herbert had been born his widowed father had taken priest’s orders; but any stranger who overheard would assume that the son of a priest must be the bastard of a celibate. It had stung the monk to recklessness.

  He had answered in a calm tone, as though explaining some elementary point to a class of exceptionally stupid schoolboys: ‘It is wrong to call me the son of a priest, for when I was born my father was a layman. Just as it would be wrong to call someone a King’s son, if when he was born his father was not a King.�
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  Henry, who was always boasting about his famous grandfather King Henry fitzConqueror, had been angered at this reminder that his father was merely Count of Anjou. All the same, it was a brave and quick repartee, and he had not been surprised to overhear a courtier mutter: ‘I don’t care whose son he is. I only wish I had a son like him.’

  Now he was amused at the recollection. Herbert of Bosham would never have come to court alone if he had not despaired of the Archbishop’s cause. That was what mattered.

  He lifted his red freckled face to the sky, smiling inanely, out of pure content, at the declining sun.

  There was suddenly a tension in the movements of his horse, and he knew that the well-trained beast winded strange destriers. He was unarmed, but there were courtiers round him and a strong escort within call; unafraid, he gathered the reins, gripped the saddle with his knees, and peered down the village street.

  Towards him rode a knot of horsemen, foremost among them a tall rider in a Cistercian cowl, mounted on a warlike destrier. The challenge was unexpected, but in his mood of gay content he accepted it without hesitation. He cantered forward alone, calling cheerfully: ‘Ah, Thomas, do you come to joust with me, or to call me to repentance?’

  The Archbishop slid from the saddle as he answered: ‘Neither, my lord. I come to make peace between us. I am your vassal for the fiefs of Canterbury, and as ruler of the Church in England your chief counsellor. Accept my homage. Wipe out the five years of contention between us.’

  Thomas knelt in the dust, his hands stretched forth in the gesture of homage. But the King, seeing suddenly that all was won, received him courteously. He also dismounted, and touched the other’s shoulders in a formal embrace. Then he stood by the Archbishop’s destrier, holding the stirrup, and insisted that he should be the first to mount. Ten minutes later they were riding side by side, chatting excitedly of old days in London and Toulouse.