Time and Chance

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Neither did Grim; even in his brief stay at Canterbury, he’d observed how mindful Lord Thomas was of his archiepiscopal dignity. “These men you named . . . is much known of them? Are they as ungodly and foul as the de Brocs?”

  “If so, we are all doomed. Three of the four are not only known to Lord Thomas, they were his vassals whilst he was chancellor. Hugh de Morville remained for a time in his service after he became archbishop. His family is a respected one; his father was a Constable of Scotland. William de Tracy is well connected, too; his grandfather was a baseborn son of the old king, the first Henry, and he holds the barony of Bradnich. Reginald Fitz Urse’s father was Lord of Bulwick in Northamptonshire and he has lands in Somerset and Montgomery. Lord Thomas was the very one who secured for him his position at court. It defies belief, Ned, that any man of Christian faith could so reward good with evil. The fourth man is younger than the others, one Richard le Bret. I think he once served in the household of the Lord William, the king’s late brother, but I am not altogether certain of that. Richard the cellarer says that his cousin’s husband told him that they had enough men-at-arms with them to require two ships for the Channel crossing.” He paused to swallow, his mouth as parched as his hopes, and then added tonelessly, “And Saltwood Castle is just twelve miles away . . .”

  Grim had always prided himself upon his logical thinking. He struggled now to remain calm, to subject this information to a dispassionate analysis. “So they are not lowborn rabble, but men of property, of substance. Are they of sufficient rank, though, to be dispatched to arrest the archbishop?”

  Fitz Stephen pondered that for several moments. “I would think not,” he said doubtfully. “King Henry has a fearsome temper, one that has gotten worse over the years. I have witnessed several of these outbursts myself, and to hear him ranting and raving in the throes of a royal rage is to understand why men say the Angevins are of the Devil’s stock. I was told that he threw a truly terrible fit at Chinon four years ago, upon hearing that Lord Thomas had excommunicated his justiciar, Richard de Lucy, as well as Richard of Ilchester and John of Oxford. It may be that his temper caught fire at Bures, too, and these lords took him at his word—”

  He broke off in midsentence, half-rising from the bench as John of Salisbury hastened toward them, his expression so stricken that they knew the news he bore was bad.

  “They are here,” he panted. “They’ve just ridden into St Augustine’s!”

  “The priory?” Grim was dumbfounded. “Why? Surely they could not expect aid from that quarter!”

  Fitz Stephen and John looked at him in surprise, then remembered that his appointment to the benefice of Saltwood was a patronage plum and he’d probably spent little time in the parish before being ejected by the de Brocs.

  “Lucifer himself could rely upon a welcome at St Augustine’s,” John said caustically. “Their prior, Clarembald, is a disgrace to the clergy and Church. He is a worldly sinner who was rewarded with an abbacy for his service to the king, a man who cares only for his carnal pleasures, feuding with his own monks, and siring so many bastards that he’s known as the stud of St Augustine’s.”

  Fitz Stephen was already well acquainted with the scandalous history of Abbot Clarembald. “Let that be, John. Tell us what is happening at the priory. Does Lord Thomas know of this?”

  “Yes, he knows.”

  “And . . . ?” Fitz Stephen prodded impatiently. “What did he say?”

  “I told him that his enemies had arrived at St Augustine’s and were having dinner with Clarembald, and he . . . he said that we should make ready to dine, too.”

  AFTER DINING on pheasant, Becket withdrew to his private quarters at the east end of the great hall. Once all of the monks, clerks, knights, and lay members of the household had finished their meal, it was the turn of the kitchen staff and servers to eat. By now word had spread of the arrival of the armed men at St Augustine’s Priory. William Fitz Neal, Becket’s steward, had been considering his precarious position as liegeman to both the archbishop and the king. Leaving his own dinner untouched, he followed Becket to his bedchamber and asked his permission to depart, saying candidly that “You are in such disfavor with the king and all his men that I dare not stay with you any longer, my lord.”

  Becket’s clerks bristled, but he accepted the defection with surprising composure, telling his steward, “Of course you have my leave to go, William.” Fitz Neal ignored the accusing looks thrown his way and returned to the hall. It was now almost 4 P.M. and winter’s early twilight was already beginning to chase away the daylight.

  While Fitz Neal was planning to abandon the archbishop’s sinking ship, a large contingent of knights and men-at-arms had left St Augustine’s and were entering the city through its Northgate. Leaving their men at a house close by the palace gateway, Hugh de Morville, Reginald Fitz Urse, William de Tracy, and Richard le Bret rode into the palace courtyard. Dismounting by the mulberry tree, they removed their swords and scabbards, then entered the great hall. Declining Fitz Neal’s polite offer of refreshments, they demanded to see the archbishop.

  Thomas Becket was sitting upon his bed, conversing with one of the monks. Others of his household were seated or kneeling in the floor rushes. Fitz Neal announced the four knights, who strode into the bedchamber and sat on the floor, too. Fitz Stephen, frozen by the door, almost forgot to breathe. For what seemed forever to him, the archbishop ignored the knights and they said nothing. Finally the impasse was broken by Becket, who acknowledged their presence coolly, only to get a response so terse as to be deliberately discourteous, a growled “God help you” from Fitz Urse. Becket flushed and another silence ensued.

  After exchanging glances with his companions, Fitz Urse assumed the role of spokesman and declared that they carried a message from the king. Did the archbishop want it said in private or public? To Fitz Stephen’s horror, his lord said that was for them to say, and Fitz Urse responded with a succinct “Alone, then.” As his clerks and monks started to leave the chamber, Becket suddenly changed his mind and recalled them. Still seated on the bed, he said to the knights:

  “Now, my lords, you may say what you will.”

  “We have been sent to escort you to the young king at Winchester, where you are to swear fealty to him and make satisfaction for the offenses you have committed against the Crown.”

  “It was my dearest wish to meet with the young king at Winchester. I was prevented from doing so by his advisers, who ordered me to return to Canterbury. I will gladly swear fealty to him. But I have committed no offenses against the Crown and I will not go to Winchester to be put on trial.”

  Fitz Urse seemed taken aback by the archbishop’s defiance. By now all of the knights were on their feet. “The lord king commands you to absolve the bishops, both from damnation and the bond of silence!”

  “I have not excommunicated the bishops. It was the Lord Pope, whose power comes from God. And if His Holiness has seen fit to vindicate me and my Church against grave injury, I am not sorry for it.”

  Fitz Urse’s jaw jutted out. “The excommunications were still your doing, so you will absolve them!”

  “Indeed, I will not. Only the Lord Pope can do that. Moreover, this was done with the king’s consent.”

  Fitz Urse whirled toward his companions. “Have you ever heard such deceit? He accuses the king of betraying his closest friends! This is beyond endurance.”

  John of Salisbury mustered up the courage to intercede at this point, realizing that there was a great and gaping chasm between what the archbishop and the king believed to have been agreed upon at Fréteval. “My lord archbishop, this serves for naught. You ought to speak privately about this with your council.”

  Fitz Urse, who so far had maintained a respectful distance, now took several steps toward Becket. “From whom do you hold your See?”

  “The spiritualities from God and my lord the Pope. The temporalities from my lord the king.”

  “You do not admit that you owe a
ll to the king?”

  “No, I do not. We must render unto the king what is the king’s, and to God what is God’s. I will spare no one who violates the laws of Christ’s Church.”

  “You dare to threaten us? You mean to excommunicate us all?”

  When Fitz Urse strode closer still to the bed, the archbishop rose to his full height, towering over the knight. “I do not believe that you come from the king,” he said and at that, the other men burst into loud, angry speech. For several moments, there was chaos, all speaking at once. They cursed the archbishop for breaking the peace and seeking to uncrown the young king and foment rebellion and even to make himself king. No less wrathful himself, Becket denied those charges with passion and leveled accusations of his own, reminding them that they’d once sworn fealty to him on bended knee. This enraged them all the more, and to the frightened witnesses, it seemed as if violence would erupt then and there, in the archbishop’s own bedchamber.

  “You threaten me in vain.” Becket’s voice was hoarse, his dark eyes blazing. “If all the swords of England were hanging over my head, you could not turn me from God’s Justice and my obedience to the Lord Pope. You will find me ready to meet you eye to eye in the Lord’s battle. Once I ran away like a frightened priest. Never will I desert my Church again. If I am allowed to perform the duties of the priesthood in peace, I shall be glad. If not, then God’s Will be done.”

  As more members of the archbishop’s household were drawn by the commotion, the knights seemed to take silent counsel, communicating by meaningful looks. Fitz Urse turned toward their audience, saying roughly, “We warn you all in the king’s name to abandon this man!” Stunned, the monks and clerks remained motionless, and he amended his order. “Guard him so that he does not flee!”

  They turned, then, began to push their way toward the door. Becket strode after them, crying out, “I am quite easy to guard, for I shall not run away. You will find me here!”

  Fitz Urse swung around, his hand groping for his belt, the instinctive gesture of a man accustomed to the weight of a sword at his hip. “Thomas, in the name of the king, I repudiate your fealty!” The other knights also repeated this most solemn oath of renunciation and a chill swept through the chamber. Even Becket appeared shocked.

  Shouting “To arms!” the knights shoved through the doorway, seizing Becket’s steward as they exited. As they pushed him ahead of them, he looked back over his shoulder at the archbishop. “My lord, you see what they are doing to me?”

  “I see,” Becket replied. “They have the force and the power of darkness.” There were loud gasps, for those clerks and monks familiar with Scriptures at once recognized that as a paraphrase of the words spoken by the Lord Jesus Christ as He was arrested in the Garden of Gethsemane.

  As the knights clattered down the stairs to the great hall, Becket returned to his chamber and sat down upon his bed. At first, there was a deathly stillness and, then, uproar. Most of the monks and clerks began to voice their opinions. Some dismissed the knights’ threats as drink-sodden posturing, for it was evident that Fitz Urse and his companions had drunk their fill at Abbot Clarembald’s table; they’d also appeared to be utterly fatigued, not surprising in light of their nonstop journey from Bures to Canterbury. Others insisted that they’d not dare to commit violence at Christmastide. Those who knew better moved to the windows on the north side of the chamber and fumbled to unlatch the shutters so they could monitor the moves of the men outside.

  “My lord, it really is quite amazing that you never will take any notice of our advice.” John of Salisbury sounded fretful and reproachful and, above all, fearful. “You always say and do what seems right to yourself alone. Was there any need for a great and good man like yourself to provoke those wicked men still more by following them to the door? Would it not have been better to have given a softer answer to men who are plotting to do you all the harm they can?”

  Becket regarded his clerk and friend calmly. “We all must die, John. We should not swerve from justice for fear of death. I am more ready to meet death for God and His Church than they are to inflict it on me.”

  “We are all sinners and not yet ready for death. I can see no one here who wants to die needlessly, apart from you.”

  Some of the clerks were offended that John should dare to speak so disrespectfully to the archbishop. Becket merely said, “May the Lord’s Will be done.”

  John would have argued further had Fitz Stephen not put a restraining hand upon his arm. As their eyes met, they shared a moment of frustrated, haunted understanding, the awareness that as clay was in the potter’s hands, so were they all in God’s Hands, and they could not save Thomas Becket unless he chose to save himself.

  Just then there was a sharp cry from Edward Grim, standing watch at one of the windows. With a young man’s keen eyesight, he’d seen in the fading light what the older sentinels had not, the activity under the ancient mulberry tree. “They are arming themselves!” Hanging so far out the window that he was in danger of falling, he soon reported, “Men are pouring into the outer court! They’ve seized the gatehouse and . . . Jesus wept! My lord, your steward has joined them! He is helping to guard the gate!”

  Through the open windows, they could hear now the shouting, the Norman battle cry of “King’s men, king’s men!” Other sounds were coming from the west, the laments of townspeople gathered outside the priory walls, crying out their fear that the archbishop and his monks were “sheep for the slaughter.” The noise was intensifying, curses and heavy pounding filling the air. Within the archbishop’s bedchamber, some of the monks and clerks fled while they still could, realizing what that new clamor meant: that quick-witted servants had barred the door to the hall and the knights were attempting to force their way back in.

  “My lord, we must get to the church!” Becket’s confessor was tugging at his sleeve and others at once added their pleas to his, entreating the archbishop to flee whilst there was still time. Becket refused, insisting that he would not budge a foot from this chamber, for here he would await God’s Will. The hammering suddenly stopped and Fitz Stephen darted toward the windows in the south wall, where he soon confirmed his worst fears.

  “Robert de Broc has led them around the side of the hall. They are going to try to enter by the external stairway!”

  Someone said that the stairway was being repaired and was not accessible, but Fitz Stephen had to puncture that faint hope. “The workmen left their ladder and tools there and de Broc is climbing up! Once he gets into the hall, he’ll take them right here!”

  The monks renewed their pleading, imploring the archbishop to seek safety in the cathedral, and again he refused, scorning them for their cowardice. It was Edward Grim who finally offered a reason for leaving that Becket could not reject out of hand. “Vespers is nigh, my lord. Would you keep the Lord and your flock waiting?”

  When Becket hesitated, the other men took physical action, seizing his arms and compelling him toward a long-unused door that led down to a private passageway to the cloisters. The door had to be forced, but they could hear now the splintering sound of wood and knew that Robert de Broc had broken into the hall. Shoving the archbishop into the stairwell, they fled into the corridor, fear making them fleet. But then they discovered that the door to the cloisters was barred. Some of the monks began to panic, crying out that they were trapped. When the bolt was suddenly lifted on the other side of the door, only the narrow, cramped space kept them from dropping to their knees in wonder at this miracle of God. A moment later, the door swung open, revealing the Almighty’s instrument to be none other than Richard, the cellarer.

  Spilling out into the cloisters, the archbishop’s clerks and monks continued to push him toward the door leading into the northwest transept of the cathedral. He eventually stopped struggling once he realized he could not prevail against them and sought to preserve his dignity, insisting that his cross-bearer proceed ahead of them with his archiepiscopal cross. Nor would he permit the cellarer t
o bar the door to the cloisters.

  When they reached the church, vespers for the monks was already in progress, but the service was halted in confusion. As some of them came down the steps leading up to the choir, Becket ordered them to “Go back and finish divine office.” Monks and clerks continued to crowd into the church, and a cry soon went up that there were armed men in the cloisters. Several men ran to close the door and slide its heavy iron bar into place.

  “No!” Becket’s voice carried loudly and clearly across the cathedral, halting the men in the act. To their utter dismay, he commanded them to reopen the door. “Christ’s Church is not a fortress. Let anyone enter who wishes.”

  They dared not disobey and he returned to the door, shoved it open, and pulled in a few stragglers seeking refuge in God’s House. He then turned and walked without haste toward the choir. He was mounting the steps when Fitz Urse and the other knights burst into the cathedral.

  Darkness had fallen and the church was lit only by a few oil lamps up in the choir and candles at the High Altar. The knights peered uncertainly into the murky, swirling shadows, their task made no easier by the fact that Becket and the Benedictine monks were clad in black. Advancing warily into the transept, one of them shouted, “Where is Thomas Becket, traitor to the king and realm?”

  Their demand was met with silence. Fitz Urse swore and then called out, “Where is the archbishop?”

  Becket turned and slowly started down the steps. “Here I am, no traitor to the king, but a priest of God. What do you want of me?”

  Some of the monks had already faded away into the blackness of the nave. Now Becket’s clerks abandoned him, too, even John of Salisbury and Henry of Auxerre, the cross-bearer substituting for the absent Alexander Llewelyn. They hid behind altars, fled down to the safety of the crypt, up the stairs to the Chapel of St Blaise. Only Robert of Merton, his confessor, Fitz Stephen, two monks, and Edward Grim stood their ground behind him on the choir steps.