“Becket’s triumph will be fleeting. Come the morrow, he will discover that there is a price to be paid for his defiance, higher than he expected, I daresay. Now put him out of your thoughts, for there is no room for three in our bed. Lie back and relax.”
“I cannot sleep, Eleanor,” he said impatiently, but when he turned toward her, he saw that she was smiling, a smile filled with indulgent amusement and sultry promise.
“I am not suggesting,” she said, “that we sleep.”
Henry’s abrupt departure had thrown the council into turmoil, and it had broken up in confusion and dismay. When the bishops assembled the next morning, it was evident that many of them had spent an uneasy night. Westminster’s great hall was a dismal scene, empty except for servants and a few men-at-arms. To more than one prelate, the air still echoed with the king’s wrathful warning: You will swear without conditions and you will swear now. What would be the consequences of defying him? His grandfather and great-grandfather had both had a summary way of dealing with opposition. So had his father. When Herbert of Bosham, one of Becket’s clerks, chose to remind the bishops that the Counts of Anjou were said to trace their descent from the Devil’s daughter, his ill-timed jest evoked no laughter.
Gilbert Foliot sat down wearily upon one of the wooden benches and was soon joined by Roger, Worcester’s bishop-elect. “The king seems to be sleeping late,” Roger said.
Another man so closely akin to the king would have made a proprietary reference to his “cousin,” but Roger had a becoming sense of modesty, never flaunting his royal connections, and Foliot smiled approvingly. He and Thomas Becket might not agree on much, but they were united in their high esteem for their younger colleague. “I hope,” he said, “that the king had a better night than I did. I was wakeful into the early hours, and when I finally did sleep, my dreams were anything but restful.”
“Nor were mine,” Roger admitted. “I am heartsick over this, for no good can come of it. Yet what choice had we? If we’d agreed to the king’s demand, who is to say what surprises might lurk down the road, hidden in the brambles of ancient custom?”
“Just so,” Foliot agreed reluctantly. What if the king used their assent to forbid them to obey a papal summons? Or if he chose to leave bishoprics vacant indefinitely, thus allowing him to appropriate the revenues? It was not that Foliot suspected the king of acting in bad faith. But it was his experience that kings were rarely satisfied with boundaries; they were always looking to expand their influence into new spheres. And this king in particular was too adept at taking a weak claim and turning it into an indisputable one. What infuriated Foliot was his conviction that this confrontation need not have happened. There had been numerous opportunities for compromise, all lost or deliberately thrown away.
Foliot’s eyes shifted, coming to rest accusingly upon the tall figure of Thomas Becket. He said nothing, though, for this was neither the time nor the place for such recriminations. If they hoped to prevail, they must present a united front to the king. He just wished he had more confidence in the man leading them into battle.
Roger was watching Becket, too, although without Foliot’s animosity. Roger was easily the most riven of those caught up in this contest of wills between king and archbishop, for he was deeply fond of both Henry and Becket. He’d noticed that a few barons had begun to straggle into the hall. But there was still no sign of the king or his justiciars, and he wondered if Henry was deliberately delaying his arrival for maximum effect, playing a cat-and-mouse game meant to shred their nerves and shake their resolve.
Several of the bishops were staring toward the door, and Roger turned to see if Henry was finally arriving. At the sight of the man standing in the doorway, he frowned, for he recognized Simon Fitz Peter, the Sheriff of Bedfordshire who’d clashed so acrimoniously with the disgraced canon, Philip de Brois.
The sheriff paused and then announced in a loud, carrying voice, “I have a message for the Archbishop of Canterbury.” Filled with foreboding, Roger watched as Fitz Peter moved briskly up the center aisle of the hall. If Becket shared Roger’s unease, he was better at hiding it. “What message is that?” he asked coolly.
“A message from my lord king.”
“He is delayed?”
Roger knew the message was more ominous than that, for it was not by mere happenchance that Henry had selected as his emissary the man mired in the middle of the controversy over Philip de Brois. He was sure that Becket knew it, too, and admired the archbishop’s sangfroid even as he braced himself for trouble.
“The king is gone.” The sheriff’s manner was stiffly correct, but he could not keep the echoes of satisfaction from his voice. “He left Westminster at first light.”
There were smothered exclamations at that, whisperings of dismay. A flicker of surprise crossed Becket’s face. “He has no plans to return, then?”
“No, my lord archbishop. He said the council’s business was done.”
“I see. Well… we thank you for informing us of his departure.”
It was a polite dismissal, but Fitz Peter did not move. “That was not the king’s message, my lord.” With a deliberately dramatic flourish, he drew two parchment scrolls from within his mantle. “As you can see, my lord, these writs bear the king’s seal.” He held them out to Becket. “King Henry orders you to yield up to him the castle of Berkhamsted and the Honour of Eye.”
Becket had held Berkhamsted and Eye since the days of his chancellorship; he would feel the loss of their income keenly. But the public humiliation stung far worse. Reaching out, he took the writs, but made no attempt to break the seal.
“My lord archbishop… do you not want to read the writs?” The sheriff’s courtesy was poisonous. “The second one concerns the young prince.”
Becket’s hand clenched on the scrolls. “What of him?”
“The king no longer wants you to assume responsibility for the education of his eldest son. You are to surrender custody of the young lord forthwith.”
A brisk November wind was blowing dead leaves across the road, causing Henry’s stallion to prance sideways, pawing the frozen ground. Thomas Becket was awaiting him beyond Northampton’s walls, and it was Henry’s doing, but he was already regretting that rash impulse. He knew his action had surprised many, including himself, but only Eleanor had dared to question him, and with her, he’d fallen back upon a half-truth: that he owed it to Will to try one last time to reconcile his own differences with Becket. She could hardly quarrel with that, and indeed he did want to salvage his brother’s sinking marital hopes, if at all possible.
His motives were more ambiguous and complicated, though, than mere brotherly concern. He still could not believe that he’d so misjudged Becket. He’d never given his trust easily, even with those he loved. Very few ever got through his outer defenses. But Thomas Becket had been his closest friend. He’d enjoyed Becket’s company, valued his intelligence, relied upon his discretion and steadfast loyalty. Thomas had been the perfect chancellor, shrewd and worldly and ruthless when need be. Now he was the perfect archbishop, defending the rights of Holy Church as passionately as he’d once defended the Crown and his king. Which man was the real Thomas Becket? Henry needed to know if their friendship had been a lie from the very first. Had Becket played him for Christendom’s greatest fool?
And so he had summoned Becket, impulsively, before he could think better of it. The archbishop had obeyed, but brought such a large entourage that Henry’s unease had flared into resentment. He’d hoped to meet a penitent, not this prideful prince of the Church, and he’d angrily sent Becket word to hold his men outside Northampton, claiming that there were not enough lodgings in the town to accommodate the royal retinue and the lord archbishop’s, too. Almost at once, though, he relented, and called for his stallion.
The archbishop had turned aside into a large meadow, midst a growing crowd of curious spectators. Thomas had always been one for drawing attention to himself, Henry thought sourly, remembering his ch
ancellor’s spectacular entry into Paris five years before. Telling his men to wait, he spurred his mount forward.
Becket hastily swung up into the saddle and galloped out to meet Henry. Both men were riding spirited young stallions, though, and their high-strung destriers reacted as if this were a battlefield encounter, plunging and rearing and screaming defiance as soon as they were within striking range. Henry and Becket were skilled riders, but neither man was able to calm his combative horse. This development, as ludicrous as it was anticlimactic, would once have had them roaring with laughter. Now it roused not even a smile. After several futile attempts to divert their stallions from confrontation, they were forced to wheel their fractious mounts, ride back to their waiting escorts.
Henry’s justiciar, Richard de Lucy, at once offered his own horse. One of Becket’s clerks did the same. Mounting again, they rode toward each other across the barren, frost-glazed meadow, this time at a more measured pace. The wind was picking up, catching at their billowing mantles and the brims of their hats, chilling them both to the bone. Henry reined in first; how had he not realized until now just how wretchedly cold the day was?
“You wished to see me, my liege?”
Becket’s words and manner were respectful-and so distant that it suddenly seemed to Henry that they were miles and worlds apart. He had rehearsed a short speech, dignified but hinting at possible concession and compromise. Those carefully crafted words were forgotten. Urging his stallion in closer, he said hoarsely:
“You were my friend. Did I not raise you from a poor and lowly station to the summit of honor and rank? Do you truly think you’d ever have become Canterbury’s archbishop if not for me? How is it, then, that after so many benefits, so many proofs of my love for you, you have blotted them all from your mind? Not only are you ungrateful, Thomas, but by God, you go out of your way to oppose me in everything!”
“That is not so, my lord king. I have not forgotten your favors, which are not yours alone, for God deigned to confer them on me through you. Far be it from me to show myself ungrateful or to act contrary to your will in anything that accords with the Will of God. Your Grace knows how faithful I have been to you. You are indeed my liege lord, but He is both your Lord and mine. It would be useful neither to you nor to me if I were to neglect His Will in order to obey yours. For on His Fearful Day of Judgment, you and I will both be judged as servants of one Lord. Neither of us will be able to answer then for the other and no excuses will avail, for we will receive our due according to our acts. It is true that temporal lords must be obeyed, but not against the Almighty. As St Peter said, ‘We must obey God rather than men.’ ”
Henry had been listening incredulously. He had bared his soul to Thomas, at last admitted to his sense of hurt and betrayal, and this pedantic, bloodless lecture was Becket’s response? “I want no sermon from you!” Shame was not an emotion he’d often experienced, but he felt shame now that he could have revealed his heart’s pain so nakedly. Seeking a weapon to inflict a wound as grievous as his own, he found it by recalling Becket’s Achilles’ heel-his pride.
“After all, are you not the son of one of my villeins?” That scornful taunt was guaranteed to penetrate Becket’s shield, for in their society, few insults were more offensive than an accusation of low birth. And Becket, as Henry well knew, was sensitive about his family background; it had not been easy for the son of a London merchant to rise to the rarefied heights of power and privilege.
Just as Henry had expected, his barb drew blood. Becket’s face flooded with heat. “It is true,” he said, “that I am not ‘sprung from royal ancestors,’ if I may quote from Horace. But neither was Peter, the blessed Prince of the Apostles, upon whom Our Lord conferred the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven and the primacy over the Holy Church.”
“That is true,” Henry agreed. “But St Peter died for his Lord.”
Becket’s head came up. “I, too, will die for my Lord when the time comes.”
Henry’s mouth dropped open. His angry words had been a reproach, not a threat, a pointed reminder that St Peter had been loyal unto death-unlike Thomas, the faithless friend. He started to explain himself, then stopped abruptly. He stared at the other man, and it was as if he were looking at an utter stranger, someone he’d never known at all.
Pope Alexander III was not pleased to find himself dragged into the conflict between the English king and Canterbury’s archbishop. Alexander’s position was a precarious one: stranded in French exile by the papal schism, dependent upon the goodwill of those sovereigns who’d refused to recognize the legitimacy of the puppet Pope, who was sheltered in Rome by the Holy Roman Emperor. When Henry dispatched Arnulf of Lisieux to the papal court at Sens, the Pope listened to his complaints and concluded that he was not proposing anything that was contrary to the teachings of the Church. Several of the English bishops had already sought to persuade Becket to compromise with the king, only to be rebuffed sharply. But Becket could not so easily dismiss those who spoke on the Pope’s behalf. In December, he was visited at Harrow, his manor in Middlesex, by the highly respected Abbot of l’Aumone, the Count of Vendome, and Robert de Melun, the Bishop-elect of Hereford.
They reminded Becket of the dangers inherent in the papal schism and urged him to take a more moderate stance in his dealings with Henry. They assured him that Henry had promised not to introduce any novel customs or make any demands that the bishops could not obey in good conscience. The Pope wanted this dispute settled amicably and would assume the responsibility for any harm the Church might suffer in consequence. Becket eventually agreed to swear to abide by the ancient customs without the qualification that Henry had found so abhorrent, and the papal envoys dared to hope that this inconvenient crisis would soon be resolved, to the mutual satisfaction of Church and Crown.
Freezing rain and sleet had been falling since dawn and even a blazing open fire could not banish the damp, pervasive chill from the great hall. The wretched weather had not deterred Thomas Becket. Accompanied by the papal envoys, he arrived at Henry’s Woodstock manor soon after dark. The hall was filled with royal retainers, barons, men-at-arms, and servants, all eager to witness this December meeting between their king and the archbishop. There was considerable sympathy for Will, who was uncommonly well liked for a king’s brother, and a number of the younger knights muttered amongst themselves as Becket strode up the center aisle toward the dais.
If Becket was aware of their disapproval, he gave no indication of it, his expression somber, his gaze anchored upon Henry. He seemed composed, but Eleanor could detect signs of the toll this conflict was taking. He’d lost weight and there was a sprinkling of silver in the thick, dark hair framing his face. He was thirteen years older than her husband, less than a week away from his forty-third birthday. But he had fine bone structure, would likely age well. If she were casting for the role of archbishop, she had to concede that he looked the part, for certes. She’d known him for nigh on ten years, but he remained an enigma to her. She’d never understood men who claimed to speak for the Almighty. How could they be so sure that they had God’s Ear?
As Queen of France, she’d had such a man as her greatest enemy, the much venerated Bernard, Abbot of Clairvaux. He had been dead since 1153, and if the rumors she heard were true, he might eventually be canonized as a saint. No matter what the Church did, though, she would never see Abbot Bernard as holy. Saints were supposed to be forgiving, for Scriptures said that the Lord God would forgive men their iniquity and remember their sin no more. But Abbot Bernard had not been one for forgiving his foes. He’d never doubted that he was in the right, that he was the Chosen Instrument of the Lord. She’d been scornful of that absolute certainty of his, but chilled by it, too, for who could argue with one anointed by the Almighty? She found herself hoping now that Thomas Becket did not share Bernard’s fervent belief that he and he alone was doing God’s Work.
Henry’s greeting and Becket’s obeisance were spokes on the same wheel: courteous, correct, and
formal. The Abbot of l’Aumone was an eloquent speaker and he did what he could to ease the awkwardness. But this was not a social occasion, and there was no pretense otherwise. Becket had come to make amends, and Henry waited now to hear what he would say.
He did not get off to the best of starts, talking at length of the virtues and vices of past kings with an earnestness that put Eleanor in mind of a church sermon; whatever had happened to the man’s sense of humor? She glanced at Henry to see if he was vexed by Becket’s moralizing tone. His expression was inscrutable. Even she, who knew him so well, could not tell what he was thinking.
Becket had finally reached the crux of the matter. “Know that I shall observe the customs of your kingdom in good faith, and I shall be obedient to you in all things that are just and right.”
Eleanor’s head turned sharply toward Henry. It was true that Becket had dropped the qualifying phrase, “saving our order,” but that still did not sound to her like an unconditional offer of obedience. Henry showed no displeasure, though, at the form of the archbishop’s declaration. As his eyes met Eleanor’s, a corner of his mouth curved down and a brow went up, an expression she recognized at once: one of ironic amusement. And she knew then that her husband had a surprise in store for his archbishop. Bemused and irked that he had not seen fit to confide in her beforehand, she waited to see what it was.
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