Time and Chance

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Ranulf’s eyes widened. “Oh, no!”

  “Fortunately he was dissuaded from that. I could not counsel him to resign, Ranulf, as some of the other bishops have done. Yet I do not want to see him openly defy the king . . .”

  Neither did Ranulf. Both Henry and Becket were already teetering on the brink of an abyss; a single misstep could be disastrous. He’d come to Northampton haunted by his fear of a war with Wales, but it was becoming obvious that this feud between king and archbishop was equally dangerous. This was a storm that had been long hovering on the horizon. Yet now that it had blown up into such a threatening squall, most seemed taken by surprise, even Becket.

  Other bishops had begun to arrive, and Roger and Ranulf hastened over to greet Gilbert Foliot. Still visibly angry, he made an effort to respond with courtesy, but abandoned the attempt after Thomas Becket rode into the bailey. It occurred to Ranulf that by now his nephew would have been told of Becket’s defiant choice of the St Stephen’s Mass; there was never a shortage of men eager to curry favor by carrying tales to a king. He decided to see if he could ease Henry’s wrath before the court session began and was starting toward the great hall when a sudden outcry stopped him in his tracks.

  After dismounting, Becket had taken his heavy oaken cross from his cross-bearer, Alexander Llewelyn—to the dismay of the spectators. Several of the bishops hurried over, seeking to talk the archbishop out of such a provocative act, but Becket brushed them aside. As Ranulf turned to see, so, too, did Gilbert Foliot. Ranulf was close enough to hear the bishop brand Becket as an utter fool. Striding forward, Foliot joined the others remonstrating with Becket. Alarmed, Ranulf followed.

  The Bishop of Hereford had gone so far as to grasp the cross, pleading with Becket to reconsider. When Becket clung to the cross, Foliot grabbed hold of it, too, and tried to wrest it away by force, this time calling Becket a fool to his face. At that, Roger intervened upon Becket’s behalf, only to be sharply rebuked by Foliot. Both Hereford and Foliot were still tugging at the cross, but Becket was younger and he prevailed. Pulling free, he recovered his balance and started toward the hall.

  Hereford fell back, but Foliot hastened to keep pace. “If the king now draws his sword, you’ll make a fine pair!”

  “I carry the cross to protect myself and the English Church,” Becket retorted, then disappeared into the hall as a new disruption broke out in the bailey. The Archbishop of York had just arrived, and he’d brought his own cross-bearer, in violation of the Pope’s ban against displaying his cross outside of his own province. If Becket’s dramatic gesture was throwing down the gauntlet to Henry, York’s was meant to upstage Becket; the two men had a rivalry that went all the way back to their youthful days in the service of Archbishop Theobald. Gilbert Foliot looked incredulously at his posturing colleague, then threw up his hands in disgust.

  “What next?” he snapped. “A bearbaiting?”

  Ranulf understood exactly how he felt. This council at Northampton was rapidly spiraling out of control. And they hadn’t even gotten around to discussing war with Wales yet.

  HENRY HAD BEEN PERSUADED to withdraw to the upper chamber, much to Ranulf’s relief. He wondered if his nephew did not trust himself to control his temper in a face-to-face confrontation now that it was clear Becket had chosen defiance over submission. The Earl of Leicester had pulled Henry aside and was quietly urging him to show forbearance. Ranulf didn’t expect Henry to listen, but it was reassuring that there were a few voices of reason still to be found. Too many of the men advising the king and archbishop were arguing against compromise. Ranulf had tried again to convince his nephew to settle for the victory he’d already won—the contempt of court charge—but that was not what Henry wanted to hear. He had come to Northampton determined to force Becket’s resignation and was not willing to settle for anything less. Ranulf realized he could only watch as events played themselves out. He had to keep trying, though. If he’d come upon a burning house, he’d have felt compelled to fight the flames.

  Becket remained below in the great hall, still clinging to his cross, but the other bishops had joined Henry in the upper chamber. They had obviously conferred amongst themselves, designating Gilbert Foliot and Hilary of Chichester as their spokesmen. “My lord king,” Foliot said, “the Archbishop of Canterbury has forbidden us to take further part in this council or to sit in judgment upon him on any secular charge. He has also commanded us to defend him with ecclesiastical censure, excommunicating any who lay hands upon him.”

  Henry’s color alerted them to his rising anger. “That would put you all in violation of the Constitutions of Clarendon, which every one of you swore to obey and uphold. Need I remind you that Article Eleven compels the bishops to participate in all of the royal judgments that do not involve the shedding of blood?”

  “We do understand that, my lord. But the archbishop’s command has placed us between the hammer and the anvil. We must obey you or the archbishop—”

  “You think you’re being offered a choice? Think again, my lord bishop!” Henry’s eyes flicked from Foliot to the other bishops; it did not escape him that none seemed willing to meet his gaze. “I suggest you go back downstairs and talk some sense into him. My patience is fast running out.”

  Foliot was convinced such talk would be a waste of breath. There was no point in protesting, though; that, too, would be a waste of breath. Followed by several of the bishops and a number of barons, he returned to the great hall, where Becket sat alone with two of his clerks, Herbert of Bosham and William Fitz Stephen. Before Foliot could launch his futile appeal, Bartholomew of Exeter fell to his knees before Becket. He was one of the most respected of the prelates and all fell silent, disquieted to see him in such an emotional state. Tears blurring his eyes, he reached out uncertainly toward Becket.

  “Father,” he entreated, “spare yourself and us, your brother bishops. The king has let it be known that he will treat all who oppose him as traitors.”

  Becket slowly and deliberately shook his head. “You do not understand the Will of God.”

  Foliot drew an exasperated breath, audible evidence of his frustration. “We tried,” he said tersely, pivoting on his heel to go back abovestairs. Most of his colleagues followed, but some of the barons lingered and began to talk loudly amongst themselves, with the archbishop as their true audience. They reminisced about past clashes between kings and churchmen, reminding one another that King Henry’s great-grandfather, William the Bastard, had known how to tame his clerks, arresting his own brother, the Bishop of Bayeux, and condemning an Archbishop of Canterbury to perpetual imprisonment. Rannulph de Broc, who was known to loathe Becket, chimed in with a chilling atrocity story of more recent vintage. “What about the king’s father, Geoffrey, the Count of Anjou? He had the Bishop-elect of Seez gelded for his insolence!”

  That was too much for Ranulf. While he had never been fond of Geoffrey of Anjou, he did know that Geoffrey had always sworn his men had exceeded their authority in the brutality of the attack upon the bishop-elect. How true that was he had no way of knowing, but he resented Rannulph de Broc’s dredging up of a twenty-year-old tragedy for the express purpose of frightening Becket into surrender. Neither of the archbishop’s clerks could hide their horror. Becket was better at dissembling, but Ranulf noticed his white-knuckled grip upon the cross. Did Becket truly think Harry was capable of cruelty of that sort? If so, he had misjudged Harry as badly as Harry had misjudged him.

  Ranulf shoved past the loitering barons, meaning to reassure Becket and his clerks that Henry would never resort to such violence, even though he suspected that his words might sound hollow to them, coming from the king’s uncle. But his other nephew had lingered, too, and Roger stepped forward now to offer Becket his own assurances, pointing out that the bishops were only to sit in judgment in those cases that involved no shedding of blood. Yet Henry was insisting that the bishops take part in the judgment. What better proof could they have that he intended no charge that involved
maiming or mutilation?

  Ranulf couldn’t tell if Roger’s reassurances had succeeded or not. The clerks were too polite to show any skepticism, and the archbishop’s expression was difficult to decipher. Ranulf had an uneasy sense that Becket was listening to voices only he could hear. What had he said to Exeter? You do not understand the Will of God.

  ABOVESTAIRS THE QUARREL still raged between Henry and his bishops. Finally even the Bishop of Winchester agreed to go down and urge Becket to resign. He had no more luck, though, than the others, and the bishops, abandoning Becket to his fate, set about making their own peace with the king. After withdrawing for a hurried consultation, they returned to the chamber with a proposition for Henry.

  Once again, Gilbert Foliot was the one chosen to speak for them. “My lord king, we find ourselves caught between Scylla and Charybdis. The Archbishop of Canterbury has placed us in an impossible position. First he bade us vow to obey the Constitutions of Clarendon and now he forbids us to honor that promise. But we owe him a duty of obedience and risk excommunication if we refuse to heed his prohibition.”

  “Have you thought about what you risk if you do heed Becket?”

  “Indeed, my lord king. Therefore, we offer a compromise. If you will excuse us from pronouncing judgment upon the archbishop, we will forthwith make an appeal to the Holy Father, accusing the archbishop of perjuring himself and forcing us to violate our own oaths. We will further promise to seek his removal.”

  More than a few of the bishops then held their breath. Henry did not keep them in suspense, though. After a moment to consider, he nodded. “So be it,” he said, although he was unable to resist adding a sardonic aside. “I’d not want it said that I showed as little compassion for my bishops as does the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  WILLIAM FITZ STEPHEN was seated at Thomas Becket’s feet, Herbert of Bosham on the archbishop’s other side. The tension and turmoil had given Fitz Stephen a pounding headache, and from the way a vein was throbbing in the archbishop’s temple, he suspected that Lord Thomas suffered from the same malady. They were sitting in silence, for after Herbert had urged Becket to excommunicate his enemies, the marshals had warned them that no one was to speak to the archbishop. They could only wait, dreading what was being deliberated abovestairs. Fitz Stephen cast admiring glances at his lord, marveling that he could seem so composed in the face of such blatant injustice. When their eyes met, Becket smiled tiredly and Fitz Stephen found himself fighting back tears. Bowing his head, he whispered, “ ‘Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven,’ ” only to be silenced by one of the marshals.

  They were soon joined by the bishops, who’d been excused from further participation in the proceedings, and the waiting resumed. Occasionally a muffled shout of “Traitor” carried down to the hall and Fitz Stephen shuddered. His lord did not respond, though; his earlier agitation and uncertainty were gone, or well camouflaged in an almost other-worldly appearance of calm. The other bishops showed far less patience, fidgeting and murmuring amongst themselves. Herbert was glaring openly at them, making no effort to hide his disdain. Fitz Stephen was less judgmental; excepting the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Chichester, he felt they were well intentioned. While it was a great pity they’d not shown more backbone, he could not in all fairness fault them for it. There were few men walking God’s earth with the courage to defy a king, especially this king.

  When they finally heard the door open and the thud of footsteps on the stairs, Fitz Stephen, Herbert, and several of the bishops jumped to their feet. Thomas Becket remained seated, though, still firmly gripping his cross. Men began to crowd into the hall and Fitz Stephen’s last quavering hope was snuffed out by the sight of the triumphant grins and smirks of those barons most hostile to his lord.

  There was no joy to be found in the somber expression of the Earl of Leicester. Moving with a heavy tread, as if he felt the full weight of his sixty years, he approached the archbishop. “It has fallen upon me,” he said gravely, “to inform you, my lord archbishop, that you have been found guilty of treason. The sentence passed by the court is that you be—”

  “I will hear no judgment, for I have appealed to His Holiness, the Pope.”

  Leicester was momentarily thrown off-stride by Becket’s interruption. His hesitation making it clear that this was a task he was loath to perform, he started to speak again and again Becket cut him off. Leicester turned to Rainald as if for assistance. Rainald merely shook his head. At that the Bishop of Chichester intervened, but not on behalf of his beleaguered colleague.

  “Your treason is manifest to all,” he told Becket, with a sorrowful air that only emphasized the harshness of his words, “and you must hear the court’s sentence.”

  “Who are you to tell me that?” Becket rose to his feet, dismissing Chichester with a scornful curl of his lip. For a moment, his eyes raked the hall and such was the power of his personality that even the most virulent of his foes fell silent. “Judgment is given after a trial,” he said, speaking loudly enough so that all could hear. “I have done no pleading today. I was summoned for no suit except that of John Marshal, who did not even put in an appearance.” When Leicester would have spoken, he held up his hand, halting the words in a gesture both dramatic and imperious. “I forbid you by the authority that Holy Church gives me over you to pass judgment upon me.”

  Leicester, looking more uncomfortable by the moment, conceded defeat and stepped back. But Rannulph de Broc was uncowed. Pushing his way forward, he said with a sneer, “What authority can a lowborn traitor exercise?”

  Becket’s face flooded with color. “You’re one to talk! One of your family got himself hanged for a felony, which is more than ever happened to any of my kin.”

  De Broc sputtered, momentarily at a loss for words, and some of the other men grinned, for he had few friends, mainly allies of expedience. Becket took advantage of the pause, raising his cross and starting toward the door. He moved at a deliberate, unhurried pace, head high and shoulders squared, and as his clerks hastened to catch up with him, Fitz Stephen began to hope that they would be able to make a dignified, peaceful departure. But then Becket tripped over a bundle of faggots by the hearth and almost fell.

  That small stumble was enough to embolden his foes. Rannulph de Broc lunged forward, shouting, “Perjurer!” The cry was quickly taken up by others and Becket was soon surrounded by angry, jeering men, some of them pelting him with rushes scooped up from the floor. Henry’s half-brother, Hamelin, his face contorted with hatred, barred Becket’s way, crying “Traitor!” in a hoarse voice that was an eerie echo of the king’s.

  At that, Becket’s self-control snapped and he turned on Hamelin in a sudden fury. “Lackey,” he raged, “bastard! If I were not a priest, you’d pay dearly for that insult!”

  By now Leicester and an equally alarmed Rainald had shouldered their way through the men encircling Becket, shouting for them to get back, and as they grudgingly gave way, Becket and his clerks were able to reach the door. The dignified departure Fitz Stephen had hoped for had taken on the urgency of an escape, and when Herbert of Bosham could not find his horse, he scrambled up behind Becket onto the archbishop’s stallion. But no attempts were made to stop them from leaving the castle, and there was no pursuit as they rode back to their lodgings at St Andrew’s Priory. Indeed, their retreat soon turned into a triumphant procession, with the townspeople flocking out to cheer for Becket and seek his blessings.

  RANULF HAD BEEN TOSSING and turning for hours. All around him, the aisles of the great hall were crowded with pallets and the blanket-clad forms of sleeping men. But for Ranulf, sleep would not come. Finally surrendering unconditionally to his insomnia, he got to his feet and padded silently through the floor rushes toward the door. Trying not to awaken the closest sleepers, he pulled the bolt back and unfastened the latch. Cracking the door, he looked out in surprise. He’d known it was raining, hearing the thrumming upon the ro
of shingles. Until now, though, he’d not realized how severe the storm was. Torrential rains were flooding the bailey, the wind keening like a lost soul, and lightning flared somewhere over the town, searing the black sky with blue-white sparks.

  Hastily crossing himself, Ranulf shut the door, wondering how many others were lying wakeful and uneasy this night. As midnight drew nigh, it seemed as if the very heavens were warring upon Northampton. How many would see this savage storm as an ill omen, a sign of the Almighty’s displeasure at the shabby way His servant had been treated in the king’s court?

  Since he could not go outside, he looked around for another refuge, eventually settling upon the chapel adjoining the hall, for there at least, he’d find no snoring sleepers. Groping his way forward, he creaked open the door. A lone candle still flickered upon the altar and a rushlight burned in a wall sconce, but the chapel was swirling in shadows; even the wind’s wail was muffled here, the storm’s fury held at bay by the thick stone walls, the lingering grace of countless heartfelt prayers for God’s Mercy. Ranulf ’s troubled spirit eased and he drew a breath of solace. But as he moved toward the altar, a ghostly figure emerged suddenly from the shadows to intercept him.